


Tired and Torn

by kiashyel



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Superwho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:54:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiashyel/pseuds/kiashyel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Martha Jones travels the world to tell the Doctor's story, she receives help along the way from a surprising source - Dean and Sam Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place about six months into the Year that Never Was, during Doctor Who series three, and also during Supernatural season two.

_Swish._

_Squeak._

_Swish._

_Squeak._

 

            The annoying rhythm of the wipers scraping water off the windshield grated on Dean’s nerves. Impatiently, he drummed his fingers on the sticky steering wheel and fidgeted in the uncomfortably upright bucket seat. He shifted and tugged at the seat belt awkwardly positioned across his torso then let out a frustrated groan.

            Dean _hated_ not being able to drive the Impala. But his baby was too obvious, she stood out in stark contrast against the crowds of clunky vehicles used for supplies and medical transportation. Medics and servants the Master, those were the only cars driving around planet Earth these days.

            The medics sought scores of people to heal. The Master sought one person to kill. Not that that stopped him from slaughtering millions of innocent bystanders in the process of searching for some rogue woman.

            The hazy mist became a drizzle until, finally, the raindrops grew plump and pounded against the panel van in a percussive cacophony.

 

_Swishsqueak. Swishsqueak._

 

            Dean gave an infuriated growl, releasing weeks of pent up aggravation. The stillness in the van was too heavy. Something had to lessen the oppression, if only for a moment. He glared at the broken tape deck and angrily twisted the radio knobs. Dean knew it was futile. He’d heard no music – no Stones, no AC/DC – nothing but Radio Valiant and that was only when the Master deigned to deliver a message from on high. These days, the only things coming over the airwaves were bulletins about the last known whereabouts of Martha Jones.

            Grumbling, Dean punched the gas pedal and veered onto the unmarked road that wound its way through the countryside and led savvy navigators to the driveway of Bobby Singer’s salvage yard. As Dean sped along the wet gravel, he caught glimpses of light in the darkness, a bright metallic sheen illuminated by the van’s high beams.

            _Toclafane_ , he acknowledged.  Dean drove on, feeling safe knowing he could continue his journey  uninterrupted, having passed without difficulty through the roadblock a few miles back. How quickly he’d become accustomed to the presence of the Toclafane. Six months earlier, Dean and his brother Sam had vehemently rejected the existence of alien life. Now, alien life was normal, everyday life. For everyone.

            Alone with his thoughts, Dean could admit how helpless he felt. Ghosts were simple, just salt and burn the bones. Vampires, a quick beheading. Demons, the right string of Latin words and poof – a rush of oily black smoke.

            But aliens? Aliens controlled by a psychopath? How the hell were hunters, men and women armed with specific weapons and centuries of lore and legend, supposed to battle a threat from the far reaches of the universe?

            Dean sighed. He couldn’t stand feeling so defenseless, so unprotected. Though he’d never disclose it to Sam or Bobby, in these quiet moments when he was alone, Dean found himself staring at the stars, silently calling out for someone to take up the mantle he’d discarded, and save the world.

            Through the grey rain curtain, Dean saw a blue-white light shimmering in the middle of the road.

            “Son of a bitch!” he pumped the brakes and cut the wheels hard. The van skidded in an almost full one-eighty turn and narrowly avoided colliding with… _something_. Dean couldn’t tell what had suddenly appeared in the darkness.

            Heart racing, Dean threw the vehicle into park and leapt out of the driver’s seat, untangling the seat belt and drawing his weapon as he moved. Cautiously, he stepped into the range of the headlights and inched toward the mass huddled at the edge of the road.

            A hand clawed at the gravel. Dean heard a pained grunt as the figure tried to pull itself out of the ditch.

            “Hold it right there,” Dean barked, tightening his grip on his gun.

            “It’s all right,” responded a voice. A human voice. A _female_ voice. “I’m not here to do anyone harm. I’m part of the Resistance.”

            “I’ll be the judge of that,” Dean said. “Now come out where I can see you.”

            Partially hidden in the shadows, the woman struggled to rise to her feet, wincing at each movement. When she took a step into the light, Dean studied her intently.

            Inky black hair, coffee colored eyes, and bronzed chocolate skin. The stealthy militaristic clothing she wore belied her petite stature. She seemed almost delicate – weary and hunched over from the weight of the rain and the knapsack strapped to her shoulders. Her face was streaked with mud and she shivered with the cold. Something about her seemed so vulnerable, but there was a hardness that Dean recognized, an impervious armor that he himself used to wear.

            But looks could be deceiving. Dean knew that all too well.

            She took one more hobbling step toward him and at the moment of recognition, Dean felt his jaw slacken.

            “You’re Martha Jones,” he said incredulously.

            “That’s right,” she replied flatly. Dean noticed her English accent then. It reminded him of the Master, the Toclafane, and all of the other things he’d been fighting against for half a year. Every one of them had sounded like that.

            “I’m trying to help,” she said. There was that accent again. Dean automatically felt distrustful of it, but he suppressed the instinct. Martha Jones was becoming a legend. Walking the world in search of a way to destroy the Master. If any part of the rumors were true, Dean was willing to follow her to the ends of the earth.

            Martha looked pointedly at Dean’s firearm. “Mind putting that away?”

            “What?” Dean blinked. “Oh, right,” he looked at the gun in his hands and then tucked it into the waistband of his sodden jeans.

            “Cheers,” she said. Then, she gingerly turned on her heels and started to limp away.

            “Wait! Where are you going?” Dean called after her.

            “I’ve got a universe to save,” Martha told him.

            “Listen, if you keep going that way, you’re going to run straight into a bunch of Toclafane,” Dean warned, closing the distance between them in a few quick strides.

            “They won’t notice me. I’ll be fine,” she responded, a stubborn tone prevalent in her voice.

            “Hey, I’m trying to help you!”

            Martha gave a forced laugh. “Help? You nearly ran me over and then you pulled a gun on me. Forgive me for not trusting you straightaway.”

            “Nearly ran you over?” Dean echoed. “You _appeared_ in the middle of the road, right in front of my car. Can you blame me?”

            “Americans,” Martha muttered. “Guns are your answer to everything.”

            “Well maybe if you all were a little more assertive with guns in jolly ol’ England, none of this crap would’ve happened. Someone could’ve taken the Master out before he had complete control,” Dean snapped back.

            Martha leveled an angry look at him but didn’t break her stride.

            “Come on, would you stop?” Dean asked. “ _Please_. I really do want to help.”

            Reluctantly, Martha halted. “Why should I trust you?” she wondered.

            “Because I need to do something to help stop this,” he answered plaintively. “I need to help. And the way I see it, you’re the only hope we’ve got of bringing down the Master.”

            She gave no response.

            “At least let me give you a place to sleep tonight. Some decent food. I’m sure it’s been awhile since you’ve had a hot meal. Let me help you.”

            Martha stared at him for a long moment before she spoke again.

            “What’s your name, then?”

            “Dean. Dean Winchester.”

            “Right then, Dean Winchester. Let’s get a move on.”

            They walked back toward the van and Dean held the passenger door open for Martha.

            “Oh, wait a second,” Dean stopped Martha before she could climb onto the front seat. “Here,” he offered her a silver flask.

            “No, thanks,” she refused. “I don’t want a drink. I’d prefer to keep my wits about me.”

            “It’s just water,” Dean said. “Humor me, please.”

            Martha eyed him warily but finally did as he requested and took a swig of water. When her skin didn’t begin to sizzle from the silver or the holy water, Dean nodded and said, “OK, get in.”

            She gave him a questioning look. “Old habits,” Dean said simply. He gave a florid gesture and beckoned her into the van. Once she was inside, he closed the door and hurried to get behind the wheel.

 

\---

            Martha looked out the window, staring past the raindrops racing down the glass. Dean Winchester was driving her further and further into the middle of nowhere. She was on her guard, ready to fight or flee should the occasion call for it, but mostly she was tired. For six months, she’d traveled the world, from London to Germany, to Austria, to Hungary, through Italy and France and Spain. From there she made her way through parts of Africa before bartering her way onto a container ship crossing the Atlantic.

            She jumped ship in New York, _actual_ New York this time. Not New New York, not old New York. No Macra, no Daleks, no pig slaves, no Face of Boe. Just thousands of people living in fear. Martha had seen the city’s distant past and its far off future, but in the twenty-first century, she only saw its ruins. After leaving the devastation of Manhattan, she made fast work of traveling the States, but always kept her priorities foremost in her mind.

            For the most part, Martha had managed to avoid conflicts. She lived like a ghost, quiet and unremarkable, until she found members of the Resistance, the huddled masses all fighting against the Master. She was their voice. She was their hope. But tonight, she’d had an unfortunate run-in with some of the Master’s minions and had no other way of escaping than to use Jack’s vortex manipulator.

            Twenty days of walking had gotten her to eastern Texas. The press of a button on the vortex manipulator had landed her slap bang in the center of the road somewhere in South Dakota and she’d barely missed certain death. Lucky for her, Dean Winchester had excellent reflexes.

            Dean continued driving and Martha continued to stare out the window. They passed a small country church with a cemetery in its side garden. The van’s headlights briefly illuminated a row of gravestones and Martha noticed one of them was adorned with a statue of an angel.

            She resisted the urge to shudder. _Don’t blink_ , she thought _. Blink and you’re dead_. How long ago had the Doctor recorded that warning for Sally Sparrow? Nearly forty years had passed on Earth since Martha and the Doctor had shared a flat in 1969. Over ninety years since she’d been his servant. More than four hundred since they’d shared a bed in Elizabethan London. In five billion years, she and the Doctor will witness the death of the Face of Boe. While sitting in the rain, the Doctor will tell her about the Time War and how he is the last of his kind.

            And in the year one-hundred-trillion, Martha, the Doctor, and Captain Jack Harkness will be stranded at the very end of the universe when Professor Yana regenerates into the Master and steals the TARDIS.

            But in the present, Martha was in America in the twenty-first century, traveling the back roads of South Dakota with an attractive stranger. She almost smiled. The encounter with Dean Winchester wasn’t wholly unlike her first meeting with the Doctor. Danger, a near death experience, disappearing into the night with a handsome man. All that was missing was a kiss – make that a genetic transfer – that would mean absolutely nothing.

            Martha gave Dean a sidelong glance and she pursed her lips in contemplation. _Maybe that last one wouldn’t be out of the question_ , she thought.

            “So,” she finally broke the silence. “How is it you have a car anyway? Practically everyone in Europe is living in slavery.”

            Dean’s face split into a grin. “That’s America for you. Land of the free. Well, mostly. In  this part of the country, people are a little more spread out, more reclusive. We’re harder to catch.”

            “What? Are you saying there’s loads of you living in caves, like hermits or something?”

            Dean shrugged. “We’re a little like hermits, except without the cave part.” The van slowed to a stop. “Here it is. Home sweet home.”

            Martha slid out of the van and followed Dean to the dilapidated two story house.

            As the front door closed behind them, a gruff voice called out, “It’s about damn time you showed up!”

            “Can it, Bobby,” Dean grumbled.

            A bearded, middle aged man entered the room, reading from a decrepit book and carrying a beer bottle in his other hand.

            “According to some Mayan folklore…”

            “Bobby,” Dean interrupted. “We have company.”

            Bobby looked up from the tome and studied Martha. Without a word of acknowledgement, he turned to Dean. “Do you really think this is the time to be bringing girls home? Geez, boy. Think with your brain not your…”

            “Oi,” Martha objected. “I’m not his bird.” She looked at Dean and noticed a faint flush of color on his cheeks. “Do you often bring strange women home with you?”

            “Don’t answer that, Dean,” Bobby advised. He deposited his book on a nearby table and reached into his back pocket. “Here, have a drink,” he offered her a silver flask, similar to the one Dean had thrust upon her earlier.

            Dean waved the older man away. “Already been there, Bobby. She’s clear on silver and holy water.” He spoke directly to Martha, “Would you mind taking a step in that direction?”

            Baffled, Martha lifted one foot from the threadbare welcome mat and moved to her left so that she was standing on the dark hardwood floor.

            “Devil’s trap too. That’s the trifecta. She’s clean,” Dean announced. “Where’s Sam?”

            “Library.”

            Dean jerked his head, gesturing for Martha to follow him.

            When they entered the library, she saw a young man hunched over a stack of books, his brow furrowed as he skimmed the words and tersely flipped the pages.

            “Right, introductions,” Dean announced, grabbing the man’s attentions. He said to Martha, “You’ve met Bobby Singer. This is my brother Sam.”

            Dean looked from Sam to Bobby. “Guys, meet Martha Jones.”

            Sam jumped to feet, toppling books as he moved.

            “I’ll be damned,” Bobby murmured.

            “It’s nice to meet you, gentlemen,” she flashed a tired smile.

            “Martha Jones? Seriously?” Sam stood in front of her, his expression equal parts excited astonishment and reserved disbelief.

            Martha craned her neck to look him up and down. He was enormous. She felt like an insect in his hulking presence.

            “Seriously,” she retorted.

            Sam exhaled. To Martha it sounded like a sigh of relief. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth and she saw a quick flash of a dimple. He extended a massive hand toward her and Martha accepted.

            “It’s an honor,” Sam said. Martha suddenly winced when he squeezed her palm. He apologized, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

            “No, it’s not that,” Martha extracted her hand. She looked at her palms and evaluated the extent of the cuts and bruises, wriggled her fingers, flexed her wrists. Manageable, she decided. A little stiffness, but overall nothing serious. Her ankle, though, that might need some attention.

            Bobby moved past them and began clearing a pile of books from the sofa. “Here, have a seat,” he offered.

            “Actually,” Martha turned to Dean, “I was promised some food.”

            Dean ran a hand through his wet sandy brown hair. “Right…food…” he drawled. He looked helplessly at Bobby.

            “I can, uh, make some eggs?” Bobby suggested with a shrug. As resident chef, his culinary expertise was severely limited.

            “Oh, that’s wonderful,” Martha said, her mouth watering at the thought of a meal.

             Dean approached a pair of duffel bags and began to rummage through the contents of one. “I’m gonna get out of these wet clothes. You might want to do the same,” he recommended.

            “I don’t really have any,” she admitted. “The little I had, I gave to a girl in Ohio. She needed them more than me.”

            “Well…” Dean rummaged in the duffel some more. “These will at least get you through the night,” he handed her a mismatched outfit. “Bathroom’s over there.”

            Gratitude welled in her eyes and Martha accepted the clothes. Wordlessly, she shuffled off to change.


	2. Chapter 2

            When Martha disappeared into the bathroom, Sam and Bobby gave Dean a long, steady look.

            “What?” Dean said. “Don’t you have some food to make?”

            Sam snorted. “How many people do you think it takes to make eggs, Dean?”

            “This time it’s gonna take the both of you. Now go,” Dean ordered.

            “Come on,” Bobby told the younger Winchester. “You can help me crack the eggshells.”

            Sam rolled his eyes, but followed Bobby to the kitchen.

            Dean fought his way out of his muddy boots and then discarded his soggy jacket before stripping away his dripping denims and damp t-shirt. He scrambled into another pair of jeans and was pulling a charcoal colored tee over his head when he politely rapped his knuckles against the bathroom door.

            “I’m going to put my things by the fire to help dry them out. Want me to do the same with yours?” he called out. He waited but there was no reply. Dean knocked again. “Martha?”

            The door swung open. Martha’s face was scrubbed clean of the mud that painted her cheekbones. Dean’s ancient gray sweatpants and blue flannel button down practically engulfed her. He was startled again by her petite stature. She looked so innocent and young, like a kid playing dress-up instead of a warrior out to save the world.

            Martha handed him her heavy pile of wet clothes.

            “Thanks,” she said, rolling the plaid sleeves up to her elbows. “It’s nice to feel dry for a change.”

            “Don’t mention it,” Dean’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. He noticed a bit of rough twine peeking out from the v-neck opening of the button-down and he asked, “What’s that?”

            Martha tugged at the string and retrieved a key from beneath the fabric. “This,” she explained, “is how I’m able to travel without being spotted.”

            Dean took the key between his fingers and scrutinized the bits of metal soldered to it. “How does that work?”

            “It’s a perception filter. It doesn’t make me invisible, just sort of unnoticeable.”

            Dean frowned as he continued to examine the key. “But I saw you.”

            “You saw the effects of the teleport,” Martha corrected.

            “Yeah, but I noticed you after that too,” Dean locked his green eyes on hers.

            Martha fidgeted under his stare and plucked the TARDIS key from his grasp. “Maybe it’s because you wanted to see me.”

            Dean watched Martha shamble back toward Bobby’s library. Just before he’d nearly run her over, Dean had been silently praying for someone who could save the world and then, suddenly, Martha Jones had dropped from the sky.

            Maybe everything would work out after all.

            “Food’s ready!” Bobby bellowed.

            Martha followed the sound of Bobby’s voice to the kitchen while Dean laid all of their wet clothes in front of the hearth. When he crossed the threshold, he saw her at the table, seated between Sam and Bobby, savoring the first bite of fried egg.

            “This is fantastic,” she complimented Bobby. “The last time I had anything hot to eat was the night before I left London.”

            They respectfully allowed her to finish eating before they began peppering her with questions. Sam was the first to pounce.

            “Word from the Resistance says that the reason you’ve been traveling the world is because you’re searching for a way to kill the Master. Can it really be done?”

            Silence hovered thick in the air while they waited for Martha’s answer.

            “What do you know of the Master?”

            “Not much really,” Bobby said. “Just that he’s an alien and that those spheres work for him.”      

            “The Master is a Time Lord, an ancient race of aliens. There used to be a whole civilization of them, but now the Master is one of the only ones left. He and other Time Lords have been coming to Earth for _years_. And all that time, people have been watching them, studying them.”

            “What, like Area 51 or something?” Sam wondered.

            “Not exactly. There’s the Torchwood Institute and there’s U.N.I.T., the Unified Intelligence Taskforce, both are government agencies dedicated to investigating the extraterrestrial. Over the years, they figured out how to kill Time Lords.”

            “How?” Bobby questioned. “I’m guessing it’s not that easy or someone would’ve done it already.”

            “Time Lords have a way of cheating death. They can regenerate and come back with a different body.”

            Dean was leaned against the counter, his arms folded over his chest. “So you’re saying the son of a bitch is immortal?”

            Martha said, “That’s the secret of the special weapon. It’s a gun…a gun in four parts. It takes four separate chemicals and if I can inject the Master with them, he won’t be able to regenerate. It’ll kill him permanently.”

            The hunters absorbed the information.

            “Where do you get the chemicals?” Sam asked. “I don’t imagine you can stock up at the local pharmacy.”

            Martha shook her head. “The components have been kept safe, scattered across the world. I managed to get my hands on one of them at an abandoned U.N.I.T. base in Budapest. There’s another base in San Diego. I’ve been trying to make my way there ever since I landed in New York a few weeks ago.”

            Sam exchanged a long look with Dean and Bobby.

            “San Diego is only about a day’s drive from here. We could take her there, give her some backup.”

            “Are you messed up in the head, boy?” Bobby blurted out. “That’s seventeen hundred miles of Toclafane and the Master’s army you’d have to get through before you even got to this U.N.I.T base. And once you’re there you’re flying blind. You don’t know what you could be up against, not to mention there’s no guarantee the component is even still there.”

            “I’m not an idiot, Bobby,” Sam retorted. “I know there are risks. But I still think we can handle it.”

            “You two have got to get it through your heads that we can’t do regular hunts no more. Those days are gone. Quit treating this stuff like it’s as easy as a textbook salt and burn.”

            Dean had been quietly ruminating on an idea. Finally he spoke.

            “Martha, I almost killed you tonight…”

            “What?” Sam and Bobby stopped their bickering long enough to shoot him looks of incredulity.

            Dean ignored them without missing a beat. “...because you just appeared out of thin air. How did you do that?”

            He saw Martha lay a hand on the knapsack at her feet. She seemed determined to keep it near her at all times.

            “I have a…device,” she answered carefully. “It allows me to teleport from place to place.”

            “Can’t you just use that thing to zap you to San Diego? It seems like the easiest solution.”

            Martha shook her head. “It’s _rough_ ,” she emphasized. “When you’ve used it, you feel like you’ve been a championship boxer’s punching bag and it leaves you with the worst headache of your life. Once I used it and ended up coughing up blood. I really don’t use it more than I have to. Tonight was an absolute necessity.”

            “Damn it,” Dean muttered. “There goes that idea.”

            “I’d even venture so far as to say that about half of my injuries are from the effects of the manipulator and not from you nearly running me over,” Martha told him.

            “You nearly ran her over?” Sam’s eyebrows shot upward.

            “Hey, we’ve already established that she appeared out of thin air. She happened to appear in the middle of the road,” Dean defended.

Bobby sighed. He said to Martha, “Top of the stairs, first door on the right, there’s a bedroom. Go get some shut-eye.”

            “All the times Sam and I have crashed here, you never once offered one of us the bed,” Dean said.

            “You’ve never been saving the world from aliens, you idjit,” Bobby replied.

            “We’ve saved it plenty of other damn times,” Dean grumbled.

            “Yeah, well, you’re not a pretty girl either. Now shut up and all of you go to bed. We have to get up early and strategize. It’s a long drive to San Diego.”

 

\---

            Once she was upstairs in the bedroom Bobby offered her, Martha climbed into bed, burrowed under the blankets and nestled her head into the pillow. Exhaustion overwhelmed her body, but her mind refused to let her sleep. She tossed and turned a little before finally getting settled and she gazed at a strand of moonlight forcing its way through the grime covered window.

            She never looked at moonlight quite the same way anymore, not since her hospital had been relocated to the moon by a thundering herd of Judoon. Everything changed that day. The Doctor had changed her life, changed her, and no one else in the world could say the same.

            _At least one person could_ , Martha thought.

            “Rose,” she whispered in the dark. “Rose would know.”

            This was the pattern. Whenever fatigue took over, doubt began to drown out Martha’s thoughts, replacing everything with those three words: _Rose would know_.

            Martha clamped her eyes shut tight. She could almost feel the Doctor beside her, barely a breath away.

_“There’s something right in front of me, Martha. Staring me right in the face. Rose would know. Right now, she’d say exactly the right thing. Still, can’t be helped. You’re a novice.”_

            A hot tear slid down her cheek, but to Martha it was the cold rain of New New York.

_“You’re taking me to the same planets you took her?”_

_“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”_

            The rawness of her scratched palms twinged with the same stiff pain she felt in 1913 after three months of scrubbing floors.

_“You're this Doctor's companion. What exactly do you do for him? Why does he need you?”_

            Sleep began to overtake Martha but not before one final thought marched through her head.

__"It’s impossible. How am I supposed to do this?"_ _she wondered._  
_

_Rose would know._

 

\---

            Dean made one last sweep of the ground floor before he decided to check upstairs. He sidestepped the creaky floorboard near the sofa to avoid waking Sam and Bobby and quietly climbed the stairs.

            Everything appeared to be safe and secure and Dean started to tiptoe his descent when he heard muffled sounds coming from the bedroom. Curious, he crept toward the door and listened at the slightly ajar opening.

            “Mum, Dad, get out,” he heard Martha murmur. “Let them go, Saxon.”

            Her sharp intake of air startled him when she gasped, “Jack!”

            Dean peered in and saw Martha fitfully tossing and turning, fighting against the blanket that twisted around her and pinned her to the mattress.

            When she cried the word “doctor” in such a pained, anguished voice, Dean pushed the door open and hurried to her side. He placed a hand on each of her shoulders and tried to jostle her awake.

            “Martha. Martha, wake up!”

            Her eyes snapped open as she bolted upright. She immediately pushed away his hands and scrambled off the bed, which sent her tumbling to the floor.

            “Stay back,” Martha ordered as she retreated into a pool of moonlight. Her dark eyes were frantic, like a wild animal when it’s cornered. “Get away from me.”

            Dean held his hands aloft in a peaceable gesture but rose from the mattress and took a step toward her.

            “I’m not going to hurt you. You were having a nightmare,” his voice was calm but firm. “It’s Dean Winchester. Do you remember me?”

            Martha’s shallow breaths became steadier as she gulped mouthfuls of air. “Yes,” she finally answered.

            “Good,” Dean stooped down to join her on the floor. “Wanna talk about it?”

            She lowered her face into her hands, covering her eyes like the child who’s It in a game of hide-and-seek, as if she could count to fifty, declare “ready or not, here I come” and the nightmare would scurry back into its hiding place.

            “The TARDIS,” Martha said quietly, the words escaping from the gap between her palms, “it was red. It sounded sick. I can still hear the bell.”

            Dean’s brow furrowed with confusion, but he nodded as if he understood. Martha’s fingers slid from her eyes and cupped over her lips. After a long moment, she lowered her hands and spoke again.

            “The Master has my parents and my sister,” she explained. “He took them to get to me. My brother managed to get to safety, but I’ve not heard from him in months. I don’t know where he is.

            “I’ve been running for six months, but I have to keep going. It all depends on me.”

            “Hey…the weight of the world is not on your shoulders,” he told her. It was a lesson he had to learn many  times over.

            “Yes it is,” Martha replied. “The Doctor put it there.”

            “The Doctor?”

            She nodded and launched into part of her canned speech. “The man who sent me out there, the man who told me to walk the Earth. The Doctor. He has saved the world so many times and no one ever even knew he was there. He never stops, he never stays, he never asks to be thanked.”

            “So is this Doctor an alien too?” Dean questioned.

            “He’s a Time Lord, like the Master,” Martha said before explaining in a rush, “But he’s nothing like the Master at all. The Doctor, he…exists at the heart of time and space. He’s taken me to the very end of the universe, a hundred trillion years from now. I’ve had planets sing me to sleep, and held stars in my hands. I saw Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock and watched the moon landing four times. I flirted with Shakespeare and was nearly destroyed by the fire of a living sun.

            “The Doctor, he’s, he’s wonderful.”

            Dean swallowed hard. It was a lot of information to take in. He wasn’t sure what to believe. Normally, he’d write Martha off as being cuckoo for Coco Puffs, but with everything he’d seen since the arrival of the Toclafane…Dean wasn’t going to dismiss Martha Jones so easily.

            There was, however, one thing he knew with absolute certainty. And with that knowledge, Dean found himself suddenly wishing for his brother. Sam was so much better at the touchy-feeling emotional stuff. But Dean managed to tap into his feminine side long enough to ask the obvious question.

            He cleared his throat and asked rapidly, “So, how long have you been in love with this guy?”

            Martha’s heart leapt into her eyes. Dean had seen it flickering there intermittently throughout her tale, heard it throbbing in her voice when she mentioned the Doctor, read it in her expressions as if he were reading pages in a book.

            “From the moment I met him,” she bravely answered. “He doesn’t look at me that way, but I don’t care. I believe in him.”

            Dean eyed Martha suggestively. “Is he blind?”

 She scoffed. “No, he’s just…oblivious. Before me, he had this other girl who traveled with him. Rose, her name was. She was perfect.”

            Martha went very still, as if the name held some magic power. She’d said it reverently but with a barely discernable touch of resentment. Dean could see it in her eyes how much it killed her to say that word.

             She slowly exhaled a shuddering sigh. “No one’s supposed to see me like this, you know,” Martha informed. “Everything’s meant to be about the Doctor and stopping the Master. No one’s supposed to see my late night breakdown.”

            Dean rested a hand on her shoulder and gave it a bolstering squeeze. “There, there,” he said lamely.

            Martha’s eyes shimmered with amusement at his horrible attempt to comfort her. For the first time in recent memory, she actually laughed.

            Dean couldn’t resist a grin. “So, tell me about Jimi Hendrix…”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a reference to the Doctor Who book "The Pirate Loop."

            Under Dean’s watchful eye, Martha had finally managed to sleep again. After a few hours of rest, she was awakened by a soft knock at the door.

            “Martha?” Sam spoke quietly at the threshold.

            “Yes?” she sat upright and shook her head to banish the grogginess. She blinked rapidly, trying to adjust her eyes to the cruel sunlight.

            “Here you go,” he deposited her dried garments on the edge of the bed. “We’re trying to chart a course for San Diego. Figured you’d want to be a part of it.”

            “Absolutely. Thanks.”

            Sam turned to exit but Martha’s voice stopped him.

            “Hey Sam, if I don’t get a chance to say it later…thank you so much for all of your help,” she expressed her gratitude sincerely.

            Sam waved away her thanks. “Don’t mention it. We’ve never really had a much support with the things we’ve done, but I can’t imagine being completely alone. Dean and I are family, so we’ve had each other at least. What you’re doing, it’s just…amazing.”

            Martha blushed under his compliment.

            “We may not understand all of the E.T. stuff, but we’ve dealt with some crazy, unbelievable stuff too. Dean told you?”

            Martha nodded. After her nightmare, she and Dean remained on the floor of the bedroom, sitting side by side in the pool of moonlight as he’d explained what it meant to be a hunter.

  _“I know the whole thing sounds ridiculous, but it’s really what we do. We hunt the things that go bump in the night – demons, vampires, werewolves, pissed off ghosts. What else? Possessed objects, zombies, killer clowns, scarecrows…”_

_“No way! I’ve done scarecrows as well!”_

_Dean smiled widely. “Well, see…now we have something in common besides our good looks,” he winked._

_Martha rolled her eyes. “We should compare notes sometimes. About the scarecrows, I mean.”_

_“I know that all this sounds farfetched and crazy, but it’s the truth.”_

_“Dean, I’ve been on a starship that was held captive by giant talking pirate badgers. There’s little you can tell me that sounds crazy,” she responded plaintively._

_Dean stared at her for a moment. “Touché,” he conceded. Silence hovered briefly. “How giant are we talking here?”_

_“At least as tall as your brother.”_

_He gave a low whistle. “That’s pretty terrifying. Now were these Errol Flynn pirate badgers or Johnny Depp pirate badgers?”_

            Martha replied to Sam, “Yeah, he told me.”

            Sam smiled. “At least you know someone’s got your back. I’ll, uh, see you downstairs.”

            Once he’d gone and closed the door behind him, Martha donned her black cargo trousers and her purple vest top then strapped on her military style boots. She wrestled her hair into a utilitarian bun before retrieving Jack’s vortex manipulator from her rucksack and nestling it securely into her trouser pocket. Martha settled a few other bits and bobs about her person then pulled on her jacket and slung the rucksack over her shoulder then headed downstairs to join the Winchesters.

            She found them at the kitchen table, poring over a vast array of road maps.

            “The fastest route will take you through Nebraska,” Bobby explained. “Then onto Colorado Springs and Utah before you swing through the tip of Nevada on your way into California.”

            Martha leaned forward to examine the maps. She traced the colorful spider web of highways with a finger. “How much of an inconvenience would it be to go this way and stop in Phoenix?”

            The men studied her chosen route before Sam answered, “It shouldn’t be a problem. What’s in Phoenix?”

            “Just something I need to do,” Martha cagily replied.

            “Bobby, do you know any hunters through there? We might need some help and I’ll need to know who to call,” Dean stated.

            “I know some people in Flagstaff that could probably give you a hand.”

            “Great, then let’s get this show on the road.” Dean retrieved a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them to his brother. “Sammy, bring my baby around. We’re traveling in style.”

            “Are you sure that’s wise?” Bobby asked. “Driving the van, you won’t stand out.”

            “I know Bobby, but that van is on its last legs. It barely gets us around the city, much less a two thousand mile trip to San Diego. And if we’re really lucky, we’ll have the drive back too,” Dean reasoned.

            Bobby said nothing and Sam went to bring the car round. Dean reached for two bulky duffel bags and Martha tried to lighten his load.

            “Let me help you with that,” she took one of the bags and followed him outside.

            “Thank you, Miss Jones,” he smiled. “And how are you this morning?”

            “Better than I’ve been in months. I can’t tell you how great it felt to sleep on a proper bed for a change. I’ll tell you though, I could really use a cup of tea. I plan on drinking vats of it when this is all over.”

            “I’ll tell you what I miss,” Dean said as they waited for Sam to bring the car from the garage. “Pie.”

            “Pie?” Martha echoed. “You’re joking.”

            “I’m serious. Apple pie, pumpkin pie, chocolate pie…Hell, I’d even settle for cobbler.”

            “Right then,” Martha chuckled. “When this is all over, I promise I will reward your generosity with a pie.”

            Dean’s face contorted. “It’s not going to be one of those weird British pies, is it? Mince meat or kidney or something horrible like that?”

            Martha pointed a finger at him. “You’ll like whatever I bring you, mister.”

            They were laughing together when Sam finally arrived with the vehicle. Martha was taken aback by the staggering amount of weaponry packed into the boot of the Impala but she merely shook her head.

            “Americans…” she muttered under her breath.

            She gave Bobby one last word of thanks before Dean ushered her into the back of the car.

            “Right then,” Martha said. “Allonsy.”

            Dean and Sam exchanged a look before Dean turned the key in the ignition and the car roared to life. Then the tires flung gravel into the air as Martha and the Winchesters sped out of the salvage yard and began the arduous journey to San Diego.

\---

            Night was all around when Dean navigated the Impala into Phoenix. He was alone in his efforts. His fellow road trippers had passed out once they’d departed from Flagstaff. In the front seat, Sam slept like the dead. In the back, Martha Jones battled more nightmares.

            Dean’s eyes flickered up to the rearview mirror and he stole glances of her agitated rest. Occasionally, he heard murmurs tumble from her lips. Strange warnings against blinking, confused questions about happy primes, and something about a lizard.

            Beside him, Sam began to stir.

            “Evening, starshine,” Dean greeted as his brother struggled into complete consciousness.

            “Where are we?” Sam’s voice was thick and groggy.

            “Phoenix city limits,” Dean informed.

            Sam twisted to look in the backseat. “You didn’t wake Martha up yet? We kinda need to know where the hell we’re going.”

            “She told me enough,” Dean said. “I at least know how to get us in the vicinity of where we’re going. I’ll wake her up when we get closer.”

            Sam cast another look over his shoulder to confirm their passenger was definitely asleep.

            “Dean, are you getting sweet on Martha?”

            “Don’t be ridiculous!” Dean scoffed.

            “I’m not! You’re acting…I don’t know, _weird_ around her.”

            “Weird? What do you mean weird?”

            “Like weird, Dean! Last night you gave her your clothes and practically tucked her into bed. Today, the two of you have talked incessantly…”

            “Yeah, about the _job_ ,” Dean refuted.

            “Oh, sure. You’ve mentioned the job. But you’ve also debated the Rolling Stones versus the Beatles, discussed the merits of Tarantino movies, and you had her give you spoilers for the final Harry Potter book. Not to mention, you spent most of the drive from Albuquerque to Flagstaff talking about that stupid show _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ ”

            “Hey! Dr. Sexy is _not_ stupid!”

            “Whatever. Dean, I feel like I’ve been stuck chaperoning you on a date for the past twenty four hours. Say we survive all of this crap, what are you going to do when Martha goes back to London for her family? Are you going to go with her? Don’t forget, you’d have to fly to get there…”

            Dean growled, “Jesus, Sam! Stop trying to turn us into star crossed lovers. Can’t I just enjoy her company? She’s an interesting person. And, in case you haven’t noticed, she’s the only intelligent person on the planet who seems to understand anything about these friggin’ aliens.”

            He cast another look in the rearview mirror. Martha still tossed in her sleep, oblivious to their conversation.

            “Besides, have you listened at all to those stories she’s been telling us? Martha’s completely in love with that Doctor guy, not that he’s ever noticed. She’s doing all of this, saving the world, for him. But in the end, it won’t matter because this dude is too wrapped up in himself to pay any attention to her. Martha spends her days talking about the Doctor, but he’ll never look at her twice. She’ll spend her life pining for him but he’s never going to love her.”

            A long silence hovered awkwardly in the Impala.

            “Dude…you _really_ need to lay off those self-help books,” Sam stated.

            “They’re the only thing in Bobby’s library I haven’t read a thousand times over. Now shut up…bitch.”

            “Jerk,” Sam jovially replied.

            Dean’s eyes scanned the road signs. They were almost there. He pulled the car into a downtown alley and turned off the motor. Dean turned in the driver’s seat and reached out to gently shake Martha’s arm.

            “Martha, wake up. We’re here.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Martha’s completely in love with that Doctor guy, not that he’s ever noticed. She’s doing all of this, saving the world, for him. But in the end, it won’t matter…_

           Martha heard those words upon awakening from her nap in the back of the Impala. She maintained a guise of slumber and listened to the bickering brothers.

            _She’ll spend her life pining for him but he’s never going to love her._

             Dean had not said anything Martha had not admitted to herself hundreds, thousands of times, but it took hearing the words in another’s voice for her to believe them.

            Yes…words had power. Hadn’t she learned that lesson in the sixteenth century, using words to defeat the Carrionites?

            Didn’t she know that now, walking the world to tell the Doctor’s story?

            Words were weapons. Words were truth.

            She felt the warmth through her jacket when a hand touched her arm.

            “Martha, wake up. We’re here.”

            Fluttering her eyelids, Martha pretended to shake away a veil of sleep and she shifted to a sitting position.

            “Right, let’s get a move on, shall we?”

            “Hold it,” Sam interjected. “Do you want to tell us what we’re actually doing here?”

             “I have some business here. Now…let me do the talking.” She leveled a steady gaze at Dean. “ _Please_. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I just need you to trust me.”

            Sam and Dean returned a solemn nod and she continued.

            “Just go along with whatever I say. Don’t speak to anyone unless you’re asked a direct question,” Martha began to rummage through her rucksack as she spoke. She extracted a stethoscope and dangled it from the nape of her neck.

            “Sam, be sure to bring that medical kit. And Dean, you get to carry my bag.”

            “Great. I’m the friggin’ bell boy. I better get one hell of a tip.”

            “Not with an attitude like that you won’t,” she retorted.

            Sam chuckled at her remark.

            Martha took a deep breath. She’d been surviving on stealth for the past six months. Now, she was abandoning stealth for brass, directly challenging the opposition. No Doctor, no Captain Jack, no TARDIS to save her. Just two heavily armed brothers and their forty year old vehicle.

            She exhaled. It would have to do.

            Martha swung her door open. “Let’s go boys.”

            Sam and Dean walked the city block on either side of her, casting threatening shadows in the flickering yellow light of the lampposts.

            “Try to look somewhat official,” she advised. “And remember to let me do the talking.”

            “What are we doing here, exactly?” Dean asked quietly, for fear of alerting the darkness to their presence.

            Martha reached out to squeeze his hand. “Please just trust me, Dean. You’ll understand in a moment.”

            The trio took a few more steps before they froze at the unmistakable sound of a cocking gun.

            “Hold it right there!” a harsh voice bellowed from the darkened doorway of an abandoned warehouse.

            “At ease, soldier,” Martha said. “I know we’re late, but that’s no reason to take us to the firing squad straightaway.”

            The guard stepped to the edge of the light, gun drawn, and demanded, “Who are you? Let me see some identification.”

            _Well, he’s English_ , Martha thought. This didn’t surprise her. Most of the Master’s underlings she’d encountered had been from her own country. She retrieved a small leather rectangle from her pocket and flashed the ID.

            “Nurse Joan Redfern, ID number three-four-eight-six-four. I’m here to examine the workers.”

            “Examine the workers?” the guard repeated suspiciously. “Why would you be doing that? Since when does the Master care about the welfare of the workers?”

            “Since he realized that he’d have no workers at all if he didn’t provide _some_ sort of care,” Martha answered calmly. “Can’t very well enslave the dead, can he?”

            “’Spose not,” the guard relaxed and lowered his gun a few centimeters. “What are you doing here now? It’s well past regulation hours.”

            Martha gave a theatrical roll of her eyes and replied in an annoyed tone. “We’ve been traveling to each of the dormitories in this quadrant today and our vehicle ran out of petrol a few miles back. We had to walk the rest of the way.”

            The guard eyed her apprehensively.

            “Look, mate,” Martha said. “I’ll level with you…I’d much rather spend my time in a pub, watching the match on telly with a pint and a plate of chips, but now that the Master’s running things, that’s never going to happen again. So why don’t you let us do our jobs and keep our lives from being more miserable than they already are?”

            She could see the guard considering her proposal. It felt like an eternity passed before he finally holstered his firearm.

            “In you go, Nurse Redfern,” the guard stepped aside and held the door open for her. “Go on through at the end of the corridor. But be quick about it, yeah. At dawn this lot goes out to the desert to work on the rockets.”

            Martha nodded, “We will. And thank you.”

            She entered the dimly lit warehouse with Dean and Sam close on her heels. She walked briskly, trying to hurry while not attracting attention from the other armed guards patrolling the building’s interior.

            Once they were out of earshot of enemy ears, Dean loudly whispered, “You totally British’d him, didn’t you?”

            “What?”

            “You know what I said. You made him homesick for tea and crumpets so he’d feel sympathetic to you. Genius, by the way.”

            Martha exhaled sharply. “I wasn’t sure it would work. Glad it did.”

            “Where’d you get that ID? The guard didn’t seem to question it,” Sam asked curiously, his eyes locked on the leather holder clutched tightly in her hand.

            “Oh, um, it’s not actually an ID. It’s called psychic paper,” Martha told him. She’d nicked a wad of it from the Doctor after they’d gone on the run from the Master. While the Doctor and Jack had regrouped and assessed their situation, she’d taken the psychic paper to pass off as a few pound notes so that she could buy them each an order of chips.

            She explained, “You focus your thoughts on what you want it to say and that’s how it appears to people.”

            “Oh ho, I have _got_ to try that,” Dean said. Before Martha could react, he’d snatched the holder from her. His face twisted in concentration for a moment before he handed the ID holder to his brother.

            “What does it say?”

            Sam raised an eyebrow but accepted the paper anyway. He rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. “It says, ‘My name is Dean Winchester. I enjoy long walks on the beach, sunsets and frisky women.’ Grow up, Dean.”

            Dean laughed joyously and returned the psychic paper to Martha. “We’ve got to get us some of that paper, Sammy. It would make our lives so much easier.”

            They reached the end of the hallway and Martha placed her hand on the door knob. “Brace yourselves, gentlemen,” she warned before yanking the door open.

\---

            The stench was revolting. Dean gagged loudly and he could see Sam turning a shade of green as well. Martha crinkled her nose and shuddered. The overwhelming odor affected her, but there was a familiarity there as well. Dean was certain she’d witnessed this horror before.

            At least a hundred people – men and women, the children and the elderly – were crammed into the windowless, unvented space. Filthy didn’t begin to describe them. They were stained and sullied, dehydrated, and some bordered on emaciation.

            “Martha, what the hell is this place?” Dean spat out the words, but couldn’t banish the acerbic flavor of the air from his tongue.

            “These are the slave quarters,” she informed sadly. Dean saw moisture in her eyes. “I’ve been to dozens of them in Europe. Those make this place look like a five star hotel. And there are more here in America.”

            “Are we getting them out of here?” Sam asked from behind his jacket. It didn’t alleviate the odor but it at least made the air a little more breathable.

            “We can’t,” Martha said.

            “We’re just supposed to leave them here like this?” Sam demanded.

            “We don’t have a choice, Sam!” she cried. “The only thing waiting for them out there is immediate death. The guards will either shoot them on sight or they’ll be hacked to pieces by the spheres. Right now, I’m going to treat what injuries I can and then I’ll do what I came here to do.”

            “And what is that, exactly?” Dean questioned.

            Martha looked him dead in the eye. “Give them hope,” she replied soberly.

            “Martha…” he started to speak.

            She cut him off. “You and Sam use some of that antibiotic ointment and clean a few cuts. If you see anyone in need of stitches or something more serious, let me know.”

            A tiny voice spoke from the shadows. “Are you Martha Jones?”

            Martha turned to see a young girl of about eight standing nearby. Her hair was oily and matted. Grime streaked her face and threadbare clothes and her hands were caked with what Dean really hoped was dirt. But Martha saw past the muck and she smiled when she knelt in front of the child.

            “I am,” Martha said. “And what’s your name?”

            “Katie,” the girl replied.

            “That is a _lovely_ name.”

            Katie studied Martha for a long moment before she asked, “Are you going to save the world?”

            Martha answered seriously, “I’m certainly going to try, Katie.” She took Katie by the hand then turned back to Dean and Sam.

            “Please, just help them any way you can,” Martha implored and allowed Katie to lead her into the crowd.

            Still taking in the shocking scene before them, Dean and Sam exchanged a long look before they steeled themselves and set about the task they’d been given.

            While they worked on cuts and scrapes, Martha reset broken bones and managed a few stitches in the terrible lighting. When she and Dean ended up side by side, he couldn’t resist a comment.

            “You’re really good at this. Are you actually a nurse?”

            Martha plucked the stethoscope from her ears and wound it back over her neck. “No, I was a medical student, training to be a doctor. Before all of this…”

            Dean forced a dry laugh. “We were all something else before all of this.”

            Across the room, Sam was pointing to his watch.

            “Martha, it’s almost dawn,” the younger Winchester called. “We need to hurry.”

            With a quick nod, she and Dean began to beg for the people’s attention. Eventually, Dean stepped aside and let Martha have the spotlight.

            “Everyone, listen! Yes, I am Martha Jones,” she announced. “And I have been traveling across the world. I’ve seen the radiation pits in Europe, and I’ve recently come from the ruins of New York. Everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve seen people just like you. All of them living as slaves.

           "But there’s something you should know. The story of Martha Jones is becoming a legend, but that's all wrong because who I am isn't important. There's someone else. The man who sent me out here, the man who helped me escape the Valiant, the man who told me to walk the Earth. That man…his name is the Doctor. He has saved your lives so many times and no one, not a single person has ever known he was here. He never stops, he never stays, and he never asks to be thanked.

           "I’ve seen the Doctor. I know him and I know what he can do. I trust him completely and you should too.”

           Dean and Sam listened, enraptured by the tale Martha told. They had heard snippets of it earlier, but hearing her tell her story with such passion, such fervor, astounded them both. Dean couldn’t help but wonder what the Doctor had done to deserve such unwavering loyalty.

           Martha Jones was asking the world to believe in the Doctor, to put every molecule of hope and trust in a man they would never meet, never even see. She was asking the world to have complete blind faith in the Doctor. It was a tough sell, Dean knew, but here before them was this Doctor’s disciple, a woman who had fallen from the sky so that she could walk the world and spread a message, to heal people.

            Dean thought to himself that if he hadn’t already been willing to follow Martha Jones to the ends of the Earth, he certainly would be now.

            “You’ll have more people coming in and out of this place, more people held captive. Spread the word. Tell them all I’ve told you about the Doctor,” Martha carried on.

            Sam had circled the room during Martha’s speech and now stood beside Dean.

            “Wow…She’s _really_ good,” Sam commented.

            Dean gruffly cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah she is.”

            “We might just have a chance at this yet.”

            “Don’t get your hopes up. We’ve still gotta get to San Diego.”

            Martha found her way out of the crowd and approached them. “We have to go. Now. The transports will be arriving soon and then the guards are going to figure out we aren’t supposed to be here.”

            The three of them began to move more swiftly, shoving medical supplies into their bags as they hurried. Dean was the last one out of the room. Standing at the threshold, he took one last look at the oppressed people living in filth and degradation and firmly imprinted the image in his mind. He’d be back, he decided. He’d put an end to this.

            Dean jogged down the corridor and fell into step with Martha and Sam. They affected an air of nonchalance as they approached the exit and were met by the same guard they had encountered earlier.

            The air was cleaner outside and Dean gulped it in. The first hints of daybreak were just beginning to show in the east as golden touches of color faded into the dark blue sky.

            “Everything in order?” the guard questioned.

            “Dehydration is your biggest problem,” Martha said. “Give them a little extra water today or they’ll all be useless by week’s end.”

            “Did you sort out your transport problem?”

            “Yes. I radioed my unit and they’re going to bring us some petrol as soon as I can give them an exact location.”

            The guard gave a nod of his head by way of dismissing them. Martha responded in kind and marched off down the sidewalk. Dean and Sam were in lockstep just behind her. They rounded the corner and ducked into the alley where the Impala was hidden.

            Dean unlocked the truck and stashed the knapsacks as Martha leaned against the side of the car and closed her eyes, taking a moment to recover. He watched as Sam outstretched his arm and laid a hand on Martha’s shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered open and the corners of her mouth turned upward. Wordlessly, Sam gave a nod of his head and then slid into the passenger seat.

            Dean scoffed. Sometimes his brother was a giant blob of solace, like fuzzy pajamas, chick-flicks and chamomile tea with honey. Sam could turn on a faucet of comfort like it was nothing. Sometimes Sam’s humanity was overwhelming. Dean guessed that sometimes, especially after what they’d just witnessed, that it needed to be.

            He slammed the trunk lid closed and then he and Martha both climbed into the car.

            The silence was palpable, almost unbearable. A few miles outside of town, Dean spotted a small park and he pulled the Impala over. Sam and Martha gave him questioning looks.

            “We drove for over twenty hours yesterday,” he said, “and we still have awhile before we get to San Diego. Who knows what we’re going to find when we get there? I think we should take a break and recharge a little.”

            “That’s a good idea,” Martha agreed and exited the backseat in one fluid motion.

            Each of them picked a different spot to rest on the decrepit playground equipment. Sam stretched his long frame over a dusty slide. Dean leaned his weight against a jungle gym. And Martha, she halfheartedly pushed herself on a creaking swing, the rusted chain shrieking each time she swayed.

            After a time, Dean pushed himself from the corroded metal bars and crossed the short distance to the swing set. He nestled himself in the sand at Martha’s feet.

            “What you did back there…” he said quietly, “…it was incredible.”

            Martha sneered. “Thanks,” she replied in a self-deprecating tone.

            “I’m serious,” Dean told her.

            “I know you are,” Martha sighed. The swing’s chain gave a final agonized scream when she dismounted and joined him in the sand. “But a lot of the time it just feels like I’m putting a sticking plaster on a gunshot wound.”

           "Hey, you gave those people hope. That’s something none of us have had in a very long time. You’re giving the world something to believe in.”

            “I’m not giving the world anything, Dean,” she said dejectedly.

            Dean struggled to form the right words. While he gathered the correct sentences in his mind, Martha traced her finger through the sand, drawing symbols he’d never seen anywhere on Earth.

            “I mean, you talk about the Doctor and how wonderful he is, but you’re pretty kick ass yourself. He had to think you’re something special to trust you with something this massive. He wouldn’t have trusted you if he didn’t think you could do it, right?”

            Dean paused. “I don’t know anything about her, but that Rose chick probably couldn’t have done any better. Otherwise, she’d be here instead of you.”

            When Martha’s head snapped up and she met his gaze, the change in her was electrifying. The dark and grim look of closed off, steely determination had crumbled and the raw emotion shimmering in her eyes was so naked and vulnerable that Dean was almost uncomfortable.

            Before he knew what was happening, Martha lunged forward and pressed her mouth to his, expressing her gratitude in a way that words could not.

 


	5. Chapter 5

            A shadow fell and a polite, “ahem” tumbled on the breeze. Martha’s lips lingered on Dean’s for a moment longer before she pulled away.

            Sam towered above them. “I, uh, thought you guys might like some water but apparently you have enough fluids to swap…”

            Glaring malevolently, Dean ripped the canteen from Sam’s hand.

            “Any idea what we can expect at this U.N.I.T. base?” Sam questioned.

            Martha took sip of the water Dean offered her. “From what I’ve been able to tell, the U.N.I.T. locations are laid out almost exactly the same. Military minds like everything regimented so each base is practically a duplicate of the one before it. Like the others, this one will have been abandoned when the Master took power.”

            “The component should be here,” she told them. “Getting inside isn’t the hard part. It’s avoiding the spheres.”

            The Winchesters studied the plans until they felt comfortable with the layout. Eventually, when they decided it was time to hit the road, Martha made a proposal.

            “I could drive, you know. The two of you have been trading off since we left South Dakota. I don’t mind to take over for awhile so the both of you can get some rest.”

            Martha had always been independent but walking the Earth alone for the past six months had made her even more stubbornly self-sufficient. She had felt ill at ease having the Winchester brothers driving her around America.

            Dean and Sam exchanged a long look. “ _No one_ drives my baby,” Dean explained slowly, his tone protective. “I only let him behind the wheel when I’m virtually incapacitated. Besides, you’re a Brit. You don’t know how to drive on the right side of the road.”

            Martha balled her fists and rested them on her hips. “It’s not as if there’s traffic, Dean. I’m hardly likely to get into an accident with another driver.”

            “Why don’t you just enjoy the ride? You’ve had it pretty rough the last six months and there’s no telling when this will all end. Take advantage of the downtime,” he changed his tactics toward charming. Then, his eyes sparkled and he lifted his eyebrows suggestively, going for a hint of innuendo. “It’s not every day that I have a beautiful woman stretched out in the backseat.”

            “Really? I wouldn’t have thought that would be a problem for you,” Martha retorted.

            Sam sprayed a mouthful of water into the air as he tried to avoid choking on his laughter. Martha was pleased to see Dean at a loss for words.

            He stammered for a moment before finally replying, “You’re still not driving my car.” When he climbed behind the wheel, Martha slid into the rear of the vehicle while Sam was still recovering.

            It was early afternoon when the Impala approached the looming, desolate gray stone of the abandoned U.N.I.T. base in San Diego.

            “Sam, why don’t you go do a little recon?” Dean suggested.

            Sam looked first at his brother and then back at Martha before he rolled his eyes and vacated the car. They watched him draw his gun and dash across the cracked, uneven asphalt of the former car park. Once Sam had disappeared around the corner of the building, Dean twisted in his seat so that he could face Martha.

            “So…” he drawled.

            Martha waited for him to speak again. When he didn’t, she took initiative.

            “What? Is this where you suggest that we have a quick shag while Sam is gone?” she asked pointedly. “Are you about to give me the clichéd ‘this could be our last night on Earth’ speech?”

            “Wha- No,” Dean answered. “Not yet anyway. I just wanted to know what you’re planning to do once we get the component.”

            Martha chewed on her bottom lip as she contemplated how much to tell him. She had already gotten the Winchesters involved too deeply. The point of no return was so far behind her she could no longer see it in the distance.

            “I’m going to find a ship going to Japan,” she finally said. Making her way through Asia was going to be difficult and she knew she could not spare much time.

            “Japan?” Dean echoed. He paused in consideration. “Well, Sam and I don’t care that much for sushi, but we’ll come in handy if you come up against Godzilla.”

            “Dean, you can’t come with me.”

            His brow furrowed. “Why not?” his voice went deep and gravelly at the demand.

            Martha laid her hand on his. “Because I…” she froze. “Dean, what’s that?”

            “What?” he said, fully alert and on edge.

            She pointed out the windscreen. “That.”

            Dean turned in time to see something dart behind the far wall of a nearby building. Make that someone. Dean lifted his gun from its place beside him and he swiftly but silently maneuvered out of the Impala. He leaned his head back in and ordered in a forced whisper, “Don’t you dare get out of this car, Martha. I mean it. Stay down. Stay hidden.”

            She wasn’t pleased with the command, but did as she was told, folding her body into the floorboard and making herself as small as possible.

            The seconds ticked by at a painstakingly slow pace. Martha marked the time by the number of heartbeats she heard pounding a nervous rhythm in her chest. After a lifetime had passed, she could hear the muffled sound of Sam’s voice calling out to his brother.

            “Dean, I didn’t find anything!”

            Relieved, Martha extricated herself from floor of the Impala. A surprised cry escaped her lips when she found herself staring into a pair of dark, unfamiliar eyes through the rear passenger window.

            “Hold it right there!” Sam barked as Martha scrambled out of the driver’s side of the car. Pistol extended before him, Sam leapt in front of Martha, offering himself as her shield. A thundering cadence of footfalls echoed through the empty car park as Dean came sprinting toward them.

            The stranger made no effort to move, save for lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender. He seemed tired and worn, as most people did under the Master’s dominion, but there was nothing inherently threatening about his appearance.

 _A looter, maybe_ , Martha considered, _come to scavenge the base in hopes of finding something worth bartering._

            “I’m here for Martha Jones,” the man stated.

            “We found her first,” Sam replied in a cocky tone.

            “No, I’m here to _help_ Martha Jones,” the stranger said. “Sergeant Gerald Cothren, Unified Intelligence Taskforce, San Diego branch.” He lifted a ripped piece of his coat and Martha saw the U.N.I.T. insignia. It was faded and frayed, but he was most definitely wearing a U.N.I.T. uniform.

            “At your service, ma’am.”

            Martha resisted the urge to give him a crushing embrace, but Dean and Sam were more wary of the man.

            “How did you know she was here?” Dean quizzed.

            Cothren fixated his gaze on Martha. “In Phoenix, you used the alias of Joan Redfern. Anyone who has ever worked for U.N.I.T. has the Doctor’s file practically committed to memory. As you know, Joan Redfern was the head nurse at Farringham School for Boys in 1913. Nurse Redfern was a known associate of a Mr. John Smith, a Farringham schoolteacher who was assaulted by a group of aliens known only as The Family.

           "The Family, using an army of scarecrows, terrorized and destroyed a portion of the village before they were finally defeated. Recovered documents, I should say copies of a journal, confirmed the Doctor’s presence during the event. It was the assumption of the Resistance than anyone using a name like Joan Redfern was likely an associate of the Doctor.”

            Dean and Sam looked moderately impressed with Cothren’s information. They lowered their weapons, but Dean was still uncertain.

           “How do we know any of this is true?” he wondered. “He could have gotten this crap off the internet or something.”

           “But he didn’t,” Martha said. “Everything he just said about Farringham in 1913…I was there. I lived it, Dean. All of it was true.”

           “So the guard in Phoenix…” Sam began.

           “Was a former U.N.I.T. private,” Cothren finished. “The Resistance even works within the Master’s own domain. Private Jenkins contacted me this morning. He’d spoken with a captive who’d overheard one of you mention San Diego. I’ve been here all day, waiting in hopes that you would try coming to the base for information.”

            “Actually, we came here to get a component,” Dean said. “Something for a gun, a gun that has four parts.”

            Sergeant Cothren looked baffled. He retorted, “I know of no such thing.”

            Sam commented, “Maybe it was above your pay grade.”

            “Possibly,” Cothren relented, though he did not sound convinced.

            “Whether he knows about it doesn’t matter,” Martha said. “As long as I can get inside, I can get what I need.”

            “Then, by all means, let’s get what you came for,” Cothren declared.

            Martha retrieved her knapsack and Dean lugged a sturdy green canvas bag from the trunk. Together, the four of them made their way toward the main building. At Cothren’s suggestion, they went to a door which he assured them would be the easiest point of entry.

            “This leads into the maintenance department,” he explained. “It was one of the only doors that didn’t require biometric or key card identification. It will be the least difficult to bypass.”

            Sam tried the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. He knelt at the keyhole and pulled a set of lock picks from his pocket. After several minutes of failed attempts, Sam conceded defeat with the delicate tools and opted for a brute force approach when he tried to force the door open with a pry bar he had found in Dean’s bag.

            Martha audibly groaned. “God, what I wouldn’t give for a sonic screwdriver right about now.”

            A puzzled look flickered on Dean’s face. “That sounds like something with alcohol in it.”

            “No, it’s this device that the Doctor uses. It comes in pretty handy, especially with locks.”

            “Know what else works?” Dean tapped Sam’s shoulder and motioned him aside before taking his gun out of the waistband of his denims and aiming it squarely at the lock. He squeezed the trigger and Martha’s hands automatically went to her ears as the deafening pop shattered the silence.

            “Are guns your answer to everything?” she irritably demanded as the door fell ajar.

            “Guns are awesome,” Dean responded.

            “You know what else guns are? Loud. We’ll have Toclafane here before you know it,” Cothren informed. “This will have to be very quick.”

            “You go with her,” Sam said to the former sergeant.

            “Sam!” Dean hissed.

            “Look, I don’t really like it either, Dean,” Sam admitted, “but if he really knows the place like he says, there’s a chance that he can get her in and out safely. We have to take that chance.”

            Dean gave a hard, intimidating stare and motioned threateningly with his gun. “ _Anything_ happens to her, and I mean if she comes back with even so much as a splinter, I will waste you on the spot. Are we clear?”

            Sergeant Cothren somberly nodded and gave Martha’s arm a tug, pulling her into the U.N.I.T. building.

            “What is it you’re looking for?” he inquired as they crept down quiet, dusty corridors.

            “Just take me to the medical bay,” she said. “Just get me to the medical bay and I can handle it.”

            He pointed to the western wing. “Down this way.”

            They walked briskly through the empty building, skulking up silent stairwells and darting through cobweb curtained doorways. Martha studied Sergeant Gerald Cothren. With his sturdy muscular frame and dark chocolate skin, he cut a daunting figure, but there was something in his demeanor that she found reassuring. He almost reminded her of Leo, her stupid, annoying little brother who she missed like mad.

            “Where are you going from here?” Cothren asked. “You don’t stay in any one place for very long.”

            Martha waited a beat, decided she could trust him, and replied, “Japan. If I can find a way onto a ship going in that direction.”

            “A buddy of mine is first mate on _The Persephone_. It’s docked at the bay right now. When we’re done here, I’ll take you to him, see if we can’t get you to Japan.”

            It wasn’t as much of an offering or suggestion as it was a directive. U.N.I.T. Sergeant Cothren was used to giving orders. Finally, they stopped at a door marked MEDICAL STAFF ONLY. Martha tried the knob and it opened easily.

            “I’m guessing you’d like me to wait here while you secure this component you’re after?”

            “The more you know, the more danger you’re in,” she slid over the threshold into the stale, shadowy room. She took a small torch from one of her cargo trouser pockets and brought light to the darkness.

            _Aha_ , Martha thought. She held the torch in her mouth while she flung open cupboards and rifled through drawers. She grabbed anything and everything that had the potential for being useful – gauze, syringes, antiseptic, pills, ointments, sutures. Anything small enough to fit inside her rucksack she carried with her. The assortment of items would come in handy for aiding the refugees or for bartering.

            Nestling the items in her bag, Martha paused. One of those rare moments when she stopped to look at what had happened to her life. On the run from a mad alien dictator who had turned the planet into a near-apocalyptic wasteland, she was stealing medical supplies, plotting how she would use them to her advantage.

            _“It’s your fault! It’s all your fault!”_ she’d screamed at the Doctor while she raced erratically through London at dangerous speeds, trying to save her family from the clutches of the Master.

            She meant it then. She meant it now. It _was_ his fault. Just because she had forgiven the Doctor didn’t mean she still didn’t blame him.

            Martha snapped the bag closed and hoisted it over her right shoulder. She had taken long enough. Time to move on.

            When she emerged, Gerald Cothren was still waiting anxiously in the corridor.

            “Did you get it?” he asked.

            Martha gave a bright, triumphant smile. “Yep,” she lied. Patting her rucksack she assured him, “Got it right here.”

            Cothren placed a hand on her back and said, “Great. Let’s get out of here.”

            When Martha and Sergeant Cothren emerged from the building, Dean and Sam were positioned some distance down the car park, prepared for a fight. Sam clenched his pistol while Dean held a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. Despite her distrust of firearms, Martha smiled at the sight of them.

            From above, a shiny robotic voice ordered, “Identification.”

            Martha froze, commanded  her muscles not to move, even controlled her breathing so that she made as little noise as possible. She saw the Winchesters duck behind the opened boot of the Impala, using it as fortification so that they could watch the enemy from a safer place.

            Cothren removed his wallet and brandished it. “Gerald Cothren,” he spoke directly to the sphere. “I work in Rocket Shipyard one-six-bravo-nine. I’m authorized for travel.”

            “So far from the work?” the sphere questioned in an even tone.

            “We were just…” Cothren started to say.

            Martha closed her eyes. The spell was broken. The sergeant had unwittingly called attention to her.

            “We?” the sphere echoed. There was a long, quiet lull before it spoke again.

            “Martha Jones,” it laughed.

            Martha was horrified. The sphere actually laughed. It was an almost childlike giggle that made the sound even more terrifying.

            There was a metallic ring as the sphere unsheathed its blades. The razors began to spin.

            “The Master will be pleased to hear of your demise,” the sphere swooped.

            Martha dove out of the way, but she let out a scream when the sphere made contact.

\---

            The shorter autumn hours meant night was quickly approaching. The sky was indigo blue mottled with wisps of cotton candy pink and bursts of gold tangerine.

            Keeping lookout for any sign of Toclafane, Dean hefted the comfortable weight of his sawed-off shotgun. His cool outer exterior belied the anxiety stirring beneath his skin. It had been eight minutes since Martha and Cothren had disappeared inside the U.N.I.T. base.

            “Dean, chill,” Sam said.

            “Chill?” Dean echoed incredulously. “I’m cucumber chilled.”

            “Dude,” Sam leveled his gaze, “you’re white knuckling your shot gun.”

            Dean looked at the vise grip he had on his weapon and he relaxed for a brief moment.

            “She’s going to Japan, Sammy. When we’re done here, she’s going to Japan.”

            “So?” Sam blandly replied.

            “So?” Dean parroted again. “So?! Martha’s the only chance we have of saving the world and now that she’s off to pay a visit to Mr. Miyagi, all you can say is ‘so?’”

            Sam sighed. “I knew this was going to be a problem, but I hoped you’d be smart enough to just let it go. You’re like a baby duckling that’s imprinted on something looking for a mother. You feel helpless about not being able to do anything to fight the Toclafane and the Master so you’ve fixated on Martha because she’s actually able to do something and by helping her you’re,  by extension, saving the world too.”

            Dean chewed over his brother’s words. Baby brothers were always annoying, but they were even more annoying when they turned out to be right. As the oldest, Dean couldn’t just admit that Sam spoke the truth. Instead, Dean had to deflect.

            He snorted. “A baby duckling imprinting on something? That’s a weird thought. Like, ‘Are you my mommy?’”

            Sam rolled his eyes. “You didn’t hear a word I said.”

            “Did I or did I not just repeat the weirdo thing about the duckling?”

            “Forget it,” Sam snapped.

            “I heard you, but that doesn’t mean that I had to like it.”

            “Look, Dean, just….”

            Before Sam could finish his lecture, the maintenance door swung open and he and Dean were immediately on their guard.

            Dean almost smiled when Martha and Sergeant Cothren stepped out of the shadow of the building but he wouldn’t give Sam the satisfaction of seeing it.

            Just then, a flash of light shimmered in the air as a the setting sun glinted off the round, silver sphere of an approaching Toclafane.

            “Son of a bitch,” Dean’s growl rumbled in his chest. He and Sam moved quickly to crouch behind the open lid of the Impala’s trunk. Martha went completely immobile, locked in a stasis so complete she seemed relatively statue-esque. From the distance between them, neither Winchester could hear the exchange between Cothren and the sphere.

            The cool autumn air suddenly felt almost tangible. It was so heavy and thick that, to Dean, just trying to breathe felt like he was swallowing cold lumps of instant oatmeal. When Martha’s posture slumped, Dean knew something had happened. With a measure of foresight and preparedness, he exchanged his sawed-off for the crowbar Sam had used earlier in an attempt at prying open the door. Dean knew from experience that bullets did little to no damage to the impervious alien outer-shell of the Toclafane. Once, he’d emptied a clip at one of them on principal but had only succeeded in injuring himself with a ricochet. This time, he hoped he could get close enough to play piñata with the shiny little bastard.

            When the Toclafane extended its blades, Dean was on the move, hurtling through the parking lot with Sam close at his heels. The sphere dipped suddenly and Martha’s scream prompted Dean to sprint even faster.

            He let out a snarl when he lunged at the Toclafane. There was a satisfying crunch when the iron crowbar connected with the unknown metal of the sphere. The Toclafane spiraled through the air and collided with the gray concrete building. Dean was pleased to see a bend in one of its knives. He should have been concerned when it flew off without any more of a confrontation, but his eyes were clamped on Martha.

            She was sprawled out on the ground and thick dark blood seeped from a clean rip in the shoulder of her coat. The crowbar clattered on the pavement and Dean dropped to his knees beside her. Without hesitation, he snatched her up and tore away the jacket, exposing the deep slice close to the curve of her neck.

            “Sam!” he barked.

            “I’m on it,” Sam responded and Dean heard the pounding retreat of his thundering footsteps.

            “I’ve got you,” Dean whispered to Martha. He ripped at his shirt, buttons flying in various directions, then stripped it from his torso and pushed it into the bloody mess of her wound.

            She cried out when the cloth slipped into the chasm of her flesh. “Dean, I’m fine,” she panted.

            “I know,” he assured.  “Haven’t I told you been telling you how attractive you are?” A thin smile cracked his lips but a harried look haunted his green eyes. He heard the roar of the Impala behind him. Sam was bringing it to them for a faster getaway.

            “Once we get you somewhere, we’ll patch this right up.”

            “We can take her to the bay,” Sergeant Cothren said. “To _The Persephone_. I have a friend in the Resistance who can give her safe passage to Japan.”

            Dean gave a terse shake of his head as the Impala’s tires screeched to a stop. He half carried Martha to the car and situated her in the backseat. “You, navigate. Tell Sam where the hell we’re going,” he yelled at Cothren before sliding in next to Martha.

            It was a short drive, made even shorter by Sam’s excessive speeding, but to Dean it felt like forever. Martha leaned against his chest and he held his shirt compressed against her afflicted shoulder. He could feel the cotton growing soggy beneath his grasp. It was warm and sticky. It seemed to him the thin fabric had once been mossy green, but he was certain of nothing except the rivulets of blood oozing through the material and trickling through his clenched fingers.

            His lips were close to her ear and he murmured, “I never did tell you about the scarecrow, did I? Turned out, it was actually a pagan god the town’s ancestors had brought with them when they immigrated.” A chuckle rumbled out of his chest. “You foreigners. Always corrupting the American way of life with your weird little cultural traditions.”

            A slightly hysterical laugh forced its way out of Martha’s throat. “You should’ve been in New York in the thirties. What happened at the Empire State Building would have seriously corrupted your American way of life.” Another laugh. “And Tallulah, three l’s and an h,” she said, a hint of fond remembrance in her tone. “I’d almost forgotten about her and Lazlo. The pig and the show girl.”

            Dean didn’t bother trying to understand. Somehow he knew it was better not to ask questions during Martha’s stories. Not that she’d give him any answers. She’d made an art out of being alluring and evasive. Even with the excruciating pain she was in, Martha was unlikely to give him any sort of real response.

Cothren directed Sam through the warren of side streets and pathways that led to the port where the cargo ship _The Persephone_ was docked. When Cothren exited the car, Dean ordered Sam to follow.

            “Check it out. Make sure this is legit,” Dean commanded. Once Sam was hurrying to catch Sergeant Cothren, Dean gently nudged Martha into a sitting position and turned her to face him.

            “Let me just get a better look,” he removed the wadded bulk of his shirt from her shoulder and studied the open wound. He stifled a cringe. “It’s not so bad. I’ve had worse.”

            “Liar,” Martha accused. “You don’t have to try and make me feel better.”

            Dean didn’t respond. He was lying. It was another failed attempt at offering her a small measure of comfort. He laid his hand over the cut again, pressing the flesh closed.

            “There, there.”

            A glimmer of amusement flickered in her expression and Dean chuckled. “Better?”

            “Much,” she answered.

            “You’ll definitely need stitches to close this, but they can wait until we’re somewhere better suited for minor surgery. Did you at least get the component for the gun?”

            Martha went still. She fixed him with a serious gaze and somberly said, “Dean, I have to tell you something.”


	6. Chapter 6

            “Did you at least get the component for the gun?”

            Martha froze. She couldn’t hide it from him any longer. “Dean, I have to tell you something,” she spoke somberly.

            Nervous anticipation hovered in his expression. “What is it?”

            She whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry.” She took a steadying breath.

            “I’ve been lying to you. There is no gun.”

            “Yes there is,” he refuted. “You showed it to me.”

            “What I showed you is a medical instrument I picked up at the U.N.I.T. base in Budapest. There’s no magic combination of chemicals for killing a Time Lord.”

            Martha saw the hope evaporate from Dean’s eyes and the cold bitterness of betrayal that quickly replaced it was like a blow to her stomach. It left her with no air to breathe.

            While Dean was stunned into speechlessness, Martha found her ability to continue.

            “It’s just a cover story I created to mask the real weapon,” she explained, the words rapidly trickling from her tongue. “You know of the Archangel Network?”

            “The thing in the phones?” he slowly said.

            “Exactly. The Master uses it as a telepathic field to bind all of us humans together. It’s the way he controls everyone, keeps them in living in fear. The Network, it’s broadcast across fifteen satellites and if people were capable of thinking the exact same word at exactly the same time, then it’s possible to stop him.”

            “So, what’s the magic word?” Dean asked curiously.

            “Doctor,” Martha said.

            “Is this some Tinkerbell ‘clap your hands if you believe in fairies’ kind of bull?” he spat the words disdainfully.

            Martha ignored the comparison. “I really am sorry. But you and Sam were so determined to help me that you weren’t going to take no for an answer. That was why I asked to go to Phoenix. It’s the largest of the slave quarters in this part of the country. I figured if you were  hell-bent on bringing me here then I might as well take advantage and speak to as many people as possible. And I thought the base wouldn’t be a complete waste of time either since I could steal more supplies. I didn’t mean for this to get so out of hand and that’s the truth.”

            Dean was seething. Martha could tell by the tightness of his lips and the way he’d firmly set his strong jaw. She opened her mouth to speak, but at the sight of Sam, Sergeant Cothren, and an unknown man walking toward them prompted Dean to exit the Impala. Slowly, moving carefully, she joined their quartet.

            “It checks out as far as I can tell,” Sam muttered to Dean.

            “Martha, this is my friend Seth Albers,” Cothren introduced. “He’s _Persephone’s_ first mate. He’s spoken to the captain and they’re going to get you to Japan.”

            First mate Albers removed his grey woolen cap, revealing his short cropped blonde hair, and gave a short, courteous bow.

            “It’s an honor, Miss Jones. Captain Barnes is glad to contribute _The Persephone_ to your cause.”

            “Thank you, Seth. And thank you too Gerald. I’m grateful to you both,” Martha expressed her appreciation.

            An uncomfortable silence suddenly descended. Sam, hands in his pockets, rocked on his heels. “This looks our cue to get out of here,” he said.

            Dean nodded. “Yep. Time to go,” he turned to walk toward the car.

            Sam shot his brother a quizzical look then bent his hulking frame in half to bestow a careful hug on Martha.

            “If you ever need us, you know where we’ll be,” Sam said, releasing her.

            She squeezed his arm. “Thank you, Sam. Tell your brother…” she lost the words when she glanced at Dean leaning on the Impala’s bonnet, arms crossed over his chest, making every effort not to look in her direction.

            “I know,” Sam smiled.

            Martha watched him and Sergeant Cothren walk to the passenger side of the car, gave one last look at the Winchesters and turned back to the sailor, Albers. She followed Seth and had almost made it to the gangplank to board _The Persephone_ when she heard her name soar through the air.

            “Martha!”

            She paused and saw Dean running full speed along the dock. When he approached, Dean let out a forceful exhale.

            “Listen…just to be on the safe side, don’t watch any video tapes while you’re in Japan. Hate for you to go up against that chick from _The Ring_ in the middle of everything else you’ve got going on,” he recommend.

            The brief shock of his advice wore off and Martha grinned. It was his offer of forgiveness. Ignoring the searing pain of her wound, she flung herself against him, wrapping her good arm tightly around his neck. Her laughter tumbled out into the night.

            His hands slithered around her waist until his arms completely enveloped her. “I still want to help you Martha,” she felt the words vibrate out of his chest and hum in her ear.

            “Oh, you can,” Martha said, sliding out of the embrace almost reluctantly. “Tell the Doctor’s story, just like I told it to you. Tell it to as many people as you can.”

            “And this whole telepathic thing? How will I know when the time is right?”

            “You’ll know. You’ll feel it.”

            She watched him swallow hard before he asked his next question.

            “Will you actually be able to do it? Will you be able to stop the Master?”

            “I have to. It’s as simple as that,” she replied, her voice steely with resolution.

            “I just met you a few days ago and I can tell you’re an incredibly strong, bad-ass person. Really, you’re the best, but you don’t really seem like a killer. You don’t have the killer look.”

            Martha realized then that Dean automatically assumed that stopping the Master would mean killing him. She felt a bit of pity for Dean at that moment.

            “And you don’t look like a killer to me,” Martha said. “But what about hunting? Isn’t it your job to kill what’s evil? The monsters that prey on the weak and defenseless? The unbelievable creatures that terrorize innocent people? Don’t you kill them?

            “That’s different,” Dean refuted. “Those are things are inhuman. They’re, they’re… _creatures_. And the Master he’s…”

            “He’s a Time Lord, one who has abused his power and responsibilities as a guardian of time and space. He’s the evil monster terrorizing innocent people, Dean. I have to stop him.”

            Silence settled over them for a long moment. A faint smile twisted the corner of Dean’s lips. “You know,  this could be our last night on Earth…” he began.

            “Oh, stop it!” she scoffed.

            Dean was serious again. His eyes bored into hers and he reached out to touch the pad of his thumb to the tip of her chin. “This ain’t exactly _Casablanca_ , but…here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

            His lips delicately skimmed over hers before crushing her mouth with urgency. Martha wasn’t certain if it was Dean’s kiss or the blood loss, but she felt dizzy all the same. It was a kiss full of the promises of potential, of all the things that could happen but never would. It was a parade of possibilities disguised as a farewell – a lifetime with days of laughter, nights of passion, dangerous adventures – all things that would never, could never, exist between them except in this moment.

            When they parted, Martha and Dean both breathlessly whispered the same word.

            “Wow.”

            Martha cleared her throat. “I, uh…ahem, I should probably…” she gestured toward the gangplank.

            “Yeah. Right,” Dean agreed. “And I should…” he jerked his head in the direction of his beloved Impala. He regained his composure. “Listen, good luck,” he said sincerely.

            “Thanks.”

            “And don’t forget, you owe me a pie when this is over,” Dean’s eyes crinkled when he grinned. “You don’t want to be indebted to me. I’m a real bastard when it comes to calling on favors.”

            “I promise, I will bring you a pie,” she said. But the look in his eyes told her that he knew it was an empty promise. They both knew they would likely never see one another again. “Goodbye, Dean.”

            “Bye Martha.”

            She walked along the gangplank to where First Mate Seth Albers was waiting, respectfully giving her space for her farewells.

            “Welcome aboard _The Persephone_ ,” Albers greeted. “The captain is anxious to meet you.”

            “And what did you say the captain’s name is?” Martha questioned.

            “Captain Jackson Barnes, ma’am. He’s waiting in his quarters.”

            Martha smiled, feeling oddly safe knowing she was in the hands of another Captain Jack. “Could you ask the captain to meet me in the infirmary instead? I really need to see to this shoulder.”

            “Of course. I’ll fetch him as soon as I take you there.”

            Before following Albers along the deck, Martha took one last look over the railing and watched the taillights of the Impala disappear in the darkness.

\---

            By all accounts, it was a normal Sunday afternoon. Dean and Sam sat in the kitchen of Bobby’s home in South Dakota, each of them cleaning and reassembling their firearms. The past weeks had been busy. The return trip from San Diego had been anything but easy and the presence of the Toclafane had increased in the area, making things more difficult for them to get around.

            Sam peered out the dusty window. He frowned.

            “He should’ve been back by now,” Sam murmured.

            Dean shrugged. “He and Rufus are probably still talking. You know they gossip worse than a couple of old biddies.”

            “Yeah, I know but…”

            “Bobby’s a grown man. He can take care of himself. He’s probably taking some extra precautions. The Toclafane have been swarming ever since the Master found out about Martha’s U.N.I.T. break-in in San Diego. Chill.”

            A few minutes later, Bobby’s van skidded to a stop in the dirt and gravel driveway. Sam went to meet him at the door and Dean followed, but not after giving a quick roll of his eyes.

            “Where have you been?” Sam quizzed the grizzled hunter as if he were a teenager breaking curfew.

            “Yeah, where you been?” Dean chimed in. “Sammy’s been pacing the floor.”

            Bobby’s face was ashen, pale as he approached the brothers. Wordlessly, he brushed past them and shuffled into the library where he poured himself two fingers of whiskey and gulped as if it were water.

            “Bobby?” Sam said in a worried tone. “What the hell is wrong?”

            Bobby poured himself another glass, drank it swiftly. He poured a third for himself and a glass each for Sam and Dean.

            “I just found out from Rufus…” Bobby began, his voice tight and raw, “The Master destroyed Japan.”

            “What do you mean destroyed Japan?” Dean demanded. His fingers tightened around the tumbler.

            “Just what I said. Destroyed.”

            “How?” Sam asked, his tone curious and horrified.

            “He burned it.”

            “How the hell do you burn a country?” Sam wanted to know.

            Bobby couldn’t answer. “Rufus didn’t have some of the finer details, but he did tell me that there are no survivors.”

            “N-no survivors?” Dean choked, his voice strangled.

            Bobby shook his head sadly. “Millions of people…” he faded. “Millions dead.”

            Dean’s shaking hand brought the whiskey to his lips. His mouth watered at the smell of the liquor. He suddenly hungered for it. Dean threw it back with one fluid motion, felt it smolder and spark as it slid down his throat then wash over the solid, heavy mass in the pit of his stomach.

            Unceremoniously, Dean dropped the glass onto Bobby’s desk, heard it topple and roll over stacks of accumulated papers, then stormed out of the room, letting the screen door bang against the threshold when he hurried outside.

            Sam called after him, but Dean kept going until he reached the salvage yard. His brother found him kicking in the door of a rusted Ford pickup. He waited patiently, silently, until Dean had finished his destructive tirade.

            Dean spoke six words before disappearing into Bobby’s whiskey bottle.

            “I should have been with her.”

\---

            Acrid, oily smoke billowed into the sky. The stench was sickening. Destruction, devastation, death. The air was heavy with the evil odor of burning flesh. Screams punctuated the night.

            Martha leaned over the railing of _The Persephone_ and was violently ill. She continued to vomit long after her stomach was empty. Finally, she sank weakly to the deck.

            A week she’d been in Japan, experienced its culture, seen its landscapes, met its people. Just that morning, she had sat in the Tokoji Temple in Hagi, telling the Doctor’s story, pausing every few words so her translator could accurately relay the message. Now it was gone. The children who’d played games with her in the temple garden, the wizened elders who’d blessed her travels, the young wives who’d fed her their shares of rice, all of them dead now.

            Could any of this be worth it? Even if she did succeed, how could she live with the extermination of an entire country on her conscience?

            _Is this what it’s like to be the Doctor?_ she pondered. _To witness the most terrible things in existence and then carry on? No wonder the Doctor is always running. I couldn’t face myself if I’d seen hundreds of years like this._

            Tears streamed down her face.

            “Doctor, what have you done to me?” Martha demanded. Her face turned toward the heavens and she waited stubbornly for an answer, but the stars gave no reply.


	7. Chapter 7

     Words surrounded her, flowed over and through her. The exotic words, the words she did not understand, were spicy and pungent;  they left her skin prickling with cold fire. Some words, when she heard them whispered by English tongues, had her fighting against the firm, cool hands covering her with itchy blankets, blankets so heavy that she could not move beneath their weight.

     One word above all gave her comfort. She used that word herself. _Doctor_. It was one of many words she murmured to the darkness. It balanced delicately on the tip of her tongue and tumbled into the air with the quietest of sighs. It caught in her throat, strangled by the sobs that shook her body. It ripped from her lungs, clawing its way out in excruciating screams.

     All around her there were voices. Some British, some Nepali. Always voices. Always talking. The words were all she had. The words, they swam dizzying laps around and around her mind and would not allow her to rest.

     They throbbed to the rhythm of her pulse.

_Two hearts. Doctor. Time Lord._

     Evaporated in the air before her eyes.

_It’s called a TARDIS, Time and Relative Dimension in Space._

     Sank into her bones and soared into the sky.

_Rose, she’d know. Expelliarmus!_

     Frightened and amused her.

_Dalek. Tallulah, three l’s and an h._

     Stoked the fires of her fevered mind.

_Burn with me. Frequent fliers privilege._

     Shattered her heart into irreparable pieces.

_You’re this Doctor’s companion. Why does he need you?_

     Weighed her down with unspeakable terror and dread.

_Vote Saxon. Master. Drums._

     “DOCTOR!” she cried with a voice too raw and too hoarse to convey all the fear, the need, and the urgency she wrapped around those two syllables.

     “I’ve done all I can,” one of the voices said wearily. “What she really needs is a doctor. And a lot of medicine.”

\---

     Medicine, gauze, bandages…it all kept Dean’s arsenal buried. He handed Sam a box of penicillin and moved to close the trunk. He'd worked hard for that penicillin. That witch in Omaha had pushed a steep bargain. 

     Dean resisted a scoff. Even monsters were in the profiteering business. It wasn't the first time he'd encountered it either. A shape shifter in Oklahoma had fiercely haggled over the cost of a bottle of pain killers before Dean had threatened it with a silver knife _._  

     Now they were somewhere in Idaho. Dean couldn't remember where exactly. Sergeant Gerald Cothren was keeping the Winchesters busy running supplies between members of the Resistance.

     They each carried an armful of items into the safe house. Refugees were packed in, crammed wall to wall, so many that Dean and Sam had a difficult time maneuvering through the crowd.

     “Thank you so much for this,” Melissa, the area's Resistance leader gushed. “I know it’s getting more dangerous out there.”

     “Don’t mention it,” Sam told her. “Heard anything new recently? Reports have been kind of sketchy while we’ve been blockade running.”

     Dean was unpacking supplies and halfheartedly listening to Melissa’s report when he heard, “…strangest thing. We got word that Martha Jones is in India.”

     He nearly dropped his pocketknife and almost amputated his thumb in the process.

     “What?” Dean growled at Melissa.

     She looked frightened, but gave a nod. “Martha Jones. She’s in India, a temple in Nepal.”

     “We thought she died when the Master burned Japan,” Sam said, a spark of hope flickering in his tone.

     “Everyone did. She must be the only person to make it out alive,” Melissa surmised. “The news is obviously a little old, but the word we got this morning reported that she’d been in Nepal a few days but had been stricken ill. The doctors there were tending to her and said if they could get the right medicines, she would be just fine.”

     Dean’s fingers crushed the containers of penicillin in his hands. There he stood, with a plethora of purloined pills, an array of lifesaving drugs at his disposal, and he was helpless to get them to the one individual who need them, deserved them, more than any other human on the planet.

     “She’s alive Dean,” Sam smiled. “Martha’s actually alive.”

     “Yeah, but for how long, huh? You heard what Melissa said; Martha’s fighting some illness. And who knows how old that news is, anyway? She could already be dead for all we know.”

     “We already thought she was dead, remember? Why don’t you try being excited about this? Have a little hope.”

     Dean nodded, mulling over his brother’s words. “You’re right, Sammy,” he moved and began to gather the refugees to him.

     “I’m not that great at storytelling,” he announced, “but I’ll give it a try. Here goes.”

     Dean cleared his throat and began.

     “Once upon a time, there was a Time Lord who was called the Doctor…”


	8. Chapter 8

           Martha Jones, the legend, stood on a London street and stared down the Master. A full year since she’d stood before him on the Valiant and cowered in fear, she now firmly planted her feet and stood tall. She would be damned if she would let him belittle the work that she had done in the Doctor’s name, all the horrors she’d experienced at the command of this madman.

            Dr. Thomas Milligan lay dead at her feet. The Master laughed.

            “You,” he said in smooth, buttery voice, “when you die, the Doctor should be witness.”

\---

_“Citizens of Earth, rejoice and observe!”_

            Dean, Sam and Bobby immediately froze in the slave quarters of the abandoned warehouse in Illinois. A junk television in the corner had flared to life and on the screen was the image of the Master.

            “Quiet!” Bobby barked. “There’s an incoming transmission.”

            Aboard the Valiant, a door opened and in walked Martha Jones. Frantically, Dean pushed his way through the crowd and crouched before the set, as if being inches from the television would put him in closer proximity to her.

            “Oh my God, is that really Martha?” Sam shouted excitedly as he hurried to join his brother.

            “Everyone just SHUT THE HELL UP!” Dean roared. He looked back at the screen in time to seen Martha toss the vortex manipulator to the Master.

            _“And now, kneel,”_ the Master commanded. _“Down below, the fleet is ready to launch. Two-hundred thousand ships set to burn across the universe._

            Dean swallowed hard. Martha had warned him about this, the Master’s intention for a war throughout galaxy.

            _“Three minutes to align the black hole converters. Counting down. I never could resist a ticking clock.”_

            “Three minutes?” Bobby echoed. He looked at the boys and murmured, “Better start saying your prayers.”

            “No…” Dean whispered. What was it Martha had said to him six months ago, standing at _The Persephone’s_ gangplank? He let out a low growl and hit his palm to his forehead.

            “How will I know when the time is right?” he recalled his question to her, continued to mutter it under his breath. “How will I know when the time is right? When the time is right? When the time…”

            Dean’s eyes ripped back to the television and saw the clock counting down the three minute time limit.

            “Time!” he suddenly exclaimed.

            Martha’s words flooded back into his memory. _“You’ll know. You’ll feel it.”_

            Dean leaped to his feet and whirled around to face the throng of frightened, enslaved people. “Listen!” he commanded. “Listen! I want you all to think about all of the stories you’ve heard this year, all the things you’ve heard about the Master and about Martha Jones and I want you to forget them. There’s only one word that means anything right now. So when that clock strikes zero, I want all of you to repeat after me!”

\---

            “Any last words?” the Master wondered.

            From her kneeling position, Martha said nothing. She cut her eyes at her family, huddled together in fear, and at the Doctor, the full raiment of his nine hundred years leaving him withered in a cage.

The Master planned to kill her. She had prepared for that. But had she done everything right? The Doctor’s plan, the entire year of walking the world, the success of it had all depended on her. But now, at the crucial moment, Martha felt her mind go blank beneath her cool exterior.

            __“What am I supposed to say?_ ”_ she demanded of herself.

            _Rose would know._

             The Master scoffed contemptuously. “Such a disappointment, this one. Days of old, Doctor, you had companions who could absorb the Time Vortex.”

             _Rose would know._

             “This one’s useless.” He extended his laser screwdriver and pointed it at Martha. “Bow your head.” She acquiesced.

_Rose would know._

            Then, another voice echoed out of the vaults of her mind. It was a voice she remembered fondly. It gave her encouragement.

_“He wouldn’t have trusted you if he didn’t think you could do it, right? I don’t know anything about her, but that Rose chick probably couldn’t have done any better. Otherwise, she’d be here instead of you.”_

            The Master droned on. A smile flickered at the corner of Martha’s mouth.

            _“Rose Tyler might have known what to do, but she isn’t here right now._ I _am,”_ Martha thought. The Doctor had trusted her to save the world, _not_ Rose Tyler. The same unfathomable confidence and faith Martha had show in the Doctor, the Doctor had shown in her. That overwhelming realization made her giddy, gave her strength. Strength enough to do had to come next.

            Martha Jones laughed.

\---

            Martha Jones laughed.

            Dean stared at the television, his face equal parts horror and pride. She had laughed in the evil bastard’s face, but he worried what it might cost her.

            Two minutes.

            _“A gun? A gun in four parts? A gun in four parts scattered across the world? I mean, come on, did you really believe that?”_

            Sam grabbed Dean’s arm and pointed at the screen. “What the hell is she doing? She’s actually _taunting_ him.”

            Dean silenced his little brother. “Trust her, Sam.”

_“I told a story, that's all. No weapons, just words. I did just what the Doctor said.”_

            One minute. Dean wiped his moist palm on the frayed denim of his jeans, anxiously clenched and unclenched his fists.

_“I went across the continents, all on my own. And everywhere I went I found the people and I told them my story. I told them about the Doctor. And I told them to pass it, to spread the word so that everyone would know about the Doctor.”_

The Winchesters looked at one another and then over to Bobby, each silently praying they had done enough to help Martha tell the world about the Doctor.

             Forty seconds.

_“I gave them an instruction. Just as the Doctor said.”_

Thirty seconds.

_“I told them that if everyone thinks of one word, at one specific time, right across the world. One word, just one thought, at one moment, but with fifteen satellites.”_

            Dean turned to address all of the people gathered before him. “All right everyone, we’ve got one shot at this!” he yelled.

_“The telepathic field, binding the whole human race together…”_

            Ten seconds.

            “Boys, it’s been nice knowing ya,” Bobby said. Sam and Dean cast him a sharp look that quickly softened. They understood. Dean glanced at Sam. A slow smile crept over his face when his little brother gave him an encouraging nod.

_“…with all of them, every single person on Earth…”_

           Five. Four. Three.

_“…thinking the same thing at the same time.”_

           Two.

_“And that word is…"_

           One.

           “DOCTOR!” Dean shouted at the top of his lungs and a hundred hopeful voiced drowned out his own.

 

\---

            The Valiant was trembling violently, as if the hand of God had seized it and begun shaking it like a snow globe. Martha struggled to stay upright. She reached out to grab the nearest railing, but her fingertips barely brushed it. Her feet started to slide and she lost her balance on the awkwardly angled deck. Before she had time to cry out, a pair of arms caught her.

            Martha looked up and found herself face to face with the Doctor. They grinned widely at one another. Still holding her, the Doctor called out a warning.

            “Everyone get down! Time is reversing!”

            The Doctor pulled her to the floor, clasping her hands tightly as if he was never going to let her go. When he laughed, it was the most joyous sound to ever reach Martha’s ears. She knew then, if she lived a thousand years, she’d never hear anyone sound as perfectly happy and exultant as the Doctor was in that instant.

            An unseen force blew through the Valiant as the fabric of time repaired itself. Amid the chaos of wildly whipping papers and the turbulently shaking airship, Martha and the Doctor lay on the cold metallic floor, still holding hands and smiling stupidly at each other. She decided she could have lit a room with the Doctor’s grin. It was so wide and radiant that it practically rivaled the sun.

            In that moment, she saw the Doctor’s dark coffee eyes and for the first time, Martha noticed the overwhelming pride. He was proud of her.

            The world righted itself. The winds ceased, papers settled, and the Valiant stopped quivering. Instantly, the Doctor was back on his feet and the moment was over.

\---

            The world was about to split in two. Dean was certain of it. He and Sam and Bobby were the first ones out the door when the building started to shake. Dean had thought it was an earthquake, but he’d never heard of an earthquake producing hurricane force winds.

            He collapsed to pavement with Sam and Bobby nearby on either side. As the earth trembled, Dean felt a sudden gaping loss, as if a part of himself had suddenly gone missing. But he had no time to consider it, what with everything going to hell in a hand basket.

            Dean looked to his left and saw no sign of Sam. His brother had vanished.

            “Sam!” Dean screamed against the wind.

\---

            “Jeez, Dean, you don’t have to yell,” Sam complained. “I can hear you just fine. Or I could before you busted my eardrum.”

            Dean looked at the cell phone in his hand. He was driving the Impala down a darkened street. He would have sworn he was… _Oh, never mind_ , he told himself.

            “So, where do djinns lair up?” Dean asked.

            “Ruins usually. The bigger the better, more places to hide.”

            Dean gave a nod and said, “I think I saw a place a couple miles back. I’m gonna go check it out.”

            “No, no, no, no, Dean. Come pick me up first,” Sam objected.

            “No, I’m sure it’s nothing. I just want to take a look around,” Dean ended the call as he pulled into the side lot of an abandoned warehouse.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to the Supernatural season two episode "What Is and What Should Never Be."

            The TARDIS was parked outside her mum’s house. She could feel it looming. The Doctor and his TARDIS cast a long shadow. Martha knew that for the rest of her life, she would always feel that lingering presence. Knew that she’d always expect to see that police box perched on street corners or jammed into alleys. Knew that she’d hear strange sounds in the night and run to the window, hoping for a glimpse of the bluest blue in the universe. Knew that if the Doctor ever asked for her help, she would drop everything in an instant to come to his aid.

            But Martha Jones also knew that the time had come to say goodbye.

            For now.

            She crossed the threshold of her childhood home and walked to the door of the TARDIS. It had been her home too. The TARDIS had cared for her, looked after her when the Doctor could, or would, not. She would miss the TARDIS and that strange psychic connection that they shared. Grasping the handle of the door, Martha could feel a sad vibration, as if the TARDIS was aware of what she planned to do. It bid her a silent farewell.

            _“I know,”_ Martha thought, sending her own goodbyes to the sentient space ship.

            The squeaking hinges heralded her arrival and the Doctor leapt from his seat, immediately launching into one of his famous, dizzying rambles. Martha watched him, fondly smiling as he dashed around the console, telling her of all the places he wanted to take her, sights he wanted to show her, people he wanted her meet. He was wearing his sharp blue suit, the same suit he’d worn when he’d taken her hand on the moon and they’d raced along empty corridors of the Royal Hope Hospital. _Strange_ , she thought, _how everything comes full circle._

            Suddenly, the Doctor’s face fell. He knew what she’d come to say.

“OK,” he said softly.

            “I just can’t,” she stated in an equally quiet voice. Martha explained her reasons for leaving. They were important reasons, but they weren’t the only reasons. Martha had always lived a normal life, dreamed normal dreams. She worked hard for that normality and valued what she’d rightfully earned.

            Traveling with the Doctor had given her the extraordinary. She knew she could never live that perfectly normal life again. Somewhere, deep down, she would always yearn for the adventures he had given her. If she stayed in the TARDIS, the day would come when nothing else would ever be enough.

            The Doctor had shown her how to run. Now she had to show herself she could stay.

            He smiled sadly. “Thank you.”

            Two words said everything. It was a simple statement, but the gratitude in his ancient eyes was sincere. When he embraced her, Martha could feel his sorrow wash over her. The pain he exuded was overwhelming. She closed off her own melancholy and kept it stored in the raw places of her heart. She would not add to the burden of sadness he carried. When his arms slid from her shoulders, she forced a bittersweet smile.

            The Doctor’s grin matched her own. “Martha Jones, you saved the world,” he said matter-of-factly.

            “Yes, I did,” she replied. She found a piece of the old Martha Jones confidence and sprinkled it in her words. “I spent a lot of time with you thinking I was second best, but you know what…I _am_ good.”

            He gave a breathy chuckle.

            Her eyes flickered with concern and she asked, “Are you going to be all right?”

            After everything that had happened, his well-being was still the foremost thought in her mind.

            “Right then. Bye,” she stretched on her toes and delicately placed her lips on his cheek.

            Martha spun on her heels and strode out of the TARDIS. Standing on the street, she exhaled and gave a resolute nod of her head. She took a step forward and a near forgotten memory suddenly sprang up from the recesses of her mind.

_Martha’s completely in love with that Doctor guy, not that he’s ever noticed. She’s doing all of this, saving the world, for him. But in the end, it won’t matter…She’ll spend her life pining for him but he’s never going to love her._

            She stopped, steeled herself and turned back. Martha Jones had one more story to tell.

\---

            In their crappy motel room in Joliet, Dean could hear Sam on the phone. Checking on the girl they’d rescued from the djinn, he surmised. While Sam did that, Dean tried to reconcile his scattered memories. He could remember what was real and he could remember the intricate web of wishes the djinn had weaved around him, but there was still so much that didn’t make sense.

            In the wish for his mother to have lived, he’d been given a girlfriend, Carmen, who was representative of his supposed ideal woman. Dean was suddenly having trouble getting everything to resolve in his mind.

            She was a nurse, he remembered of Carmen, whose appearance had been plucked from the magazine he held in his hands. _No, that’s not right,_ he thought. _She should have been a doctor. No…training to be a doctor._

            Carmen had a fair complexion but Dean was suddenly picturing a woman with dark skin. This woman almost reminded him of his old flame Cassie, but stronger somehow, as if she’d carried the weight of the world on her shoulders and refused to bow beneath its immensity. Carmen had brought him his favorite beer. Inexplicably, Dean knew this other woman, the one he could recall but did not remember, she would have chuckled warmly and made him get his own.

            The more he thought about it, the more it made his head swim. He supposed it was just some lingering effect of the djinn, but he couldn’t say for certain. Everything he remembered of his mother and Jess and his fake girlfriend Carmen had some grounding in the real world. This other woman, there was nothing familiar about her, except the fact that something was familiar.

            Dean decided to give up. Thinking in circles like this was giving him a headache. Eventually, Sam ended his call and joined Dean. He sat on the edge of the opposing bed and they talked about the djinn, though it was painful for Dean to tug at the memories of those things that would never be.

            “I’m glad you dug yourself out, Dean. Most people wouldn’t have had the strength. They would’ve just stayed,” Sam said.

            “Yeah, lucky me,” Dean looked down at his hands. He rose from the crimson coverlet and strode to the other side of the room. “I gotta tell you though, you had Jess, Mom was gonna have grandkids…”

            “Yeah, but, Dean, it wasn’t real,” Sam informed.

            “I know, but I wanted to stay,” Dean admitted, a hitch of honesty in his voice. “I wanted to stay so bad. I mean, ever since Dad, all I can think is how much this job’s cost us.” He slipped into reverie, recalling trials and tribulations that he’d never experienced – bartering with a shapeshifter, holding a wad of bloody fabric between his red stained hands – before continuing.

            “We’ve sacrificed so much.”  
            “People are alive because of you,” Sam encouraged. “It’s worth it, Dean. It is.”

            Dean couldn’t resist a scoff.

           “It’s not fair and it hurts like hell, but it’s worth it.”

           Dean stared at his little brother and fervently hoped he was right. Because it seemed to Dean that suddenly he’d lost a lot more than the dream world the djinn had created. If only he could remember what it was.


	10. Chapter 10

           The sun shone warm and bright as Martha leaned against the side of the car, waiting for the pump to finish distributing petrol. It felt good to play hooky. U.N.I.T., in its infinite wisdom, had sent its newest medical officer to Minneapolis for a convention. The taskforce had taken a risk by hiring her before the completion of her degree, but the powers-that-be decided to send her to these conferences on occasion to fill in the supposed gaps in her medical training.

            Martha wasn’t one to complain, but she’d been bored out of her mind at this convention. The groundbreaking techniques the lecturers were teaching were certainly advanced for twenty-first century Earth, but she had the advantage of being a former companion of the Doctor. What her colleagues were scrambling to learn, she already knew well, having received a private lesson from the physicians at the Anavlen Sanatorium on the planet of Nirrad in the sixty-third century. Her superiors knew of her “field experience” as they called it, but Martha was certain they had no idea just exactly how much training she’d received.

            So, she had collected Tish from the hotel pool and packed her into the car.

            “Martha, where are we going?” Tish demanded when Martha had thrown their luggage into the boot of the rental car.

            “We’re taking a road trip.”

            “I’d rather stay here,” Tish had objected.

            “Come on, where’s your spirit of adventure?” Martha had goaded.

            Tish had leveled a penetrating stare at her sister before coolly replying, “Not everyone got to fly off into the galaxies with the Doctor. And after _the year_ ,” Tish emphasized, “I’d prefer to never have any kind of adventures again.”

            Martha had thrown her hands in the air. “Then why did you even come?”

            “Because,” Tish had replied, “Tom is in Nepal and couldn’t come with you. And because I thought I’d get to relax in a luxury spa, not sit in a cramped car with you for God knows how long.”

            It took more cajoling, but Martha had finally convinced Tish to come along willingly. Now if her sister would just get out of the loo, they could be back on the road. Martha slid behind the wheel and checked the directions on her map. About three-quarters of an hour before they got to Sioux Falls.

            Tish returned and took her place in the passenger seat. Sagely, Martha bit her tongue to hold back a bit of sisterly criticism about how long it had taken Tish to return and instead started the car and nosed it back onto the highway.

            “So why are we driving four hours, one way, to a salvage yard?” Tish questioned.

            Martha’s eyes flickered upward. She looked in the rearview mirror and saw the square white bakery box in the backseat. “Because I made a promise. And I want to keep it.”

            “Even though you know there’s no chance this person will remember you, much less the promise you made?”

            Martha merely nodded.

            Eventually, with a little help from SatNav and a little extra help from some accommodating locals, Martha directed the rental car to Singer Salvage Yard. Hands gripping the wheel, she took a steadying breath and exited the car with Tish following close behind her. After hearing the loud whirring sounds of power tools, Martha walked toward the garage.

            Bobby’s back was to her. He was hunched over what looked like the inner workings of an engine, completely oblivious to her presence. When he laid down the power tool, Martha seized the opportunity to grab his attention.

            “Mr. Singer?”

            Bobby whirled around, startled at the sound of her voice. “Can I help you?” he asked gruffly.

            “My name is Martha Jones and I…”

            He took one look at her crisp pantsuit and said, “Sorry, I’m not interested.”

            “Oh, no, I’m not selling anything!” Martha interjected quickly. “I, uh, um, last year, I was in an accident and my car was brought here afterwards.”

            The look in Bobby’s eyes told her he was combing his mind, searching for a scrap of recollection of the incident she mentioned.

            “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you,” he apologized.

            “That’s OK,” Martha assured. “I wasn’t here long. I just wanted to come by and say thank you. You took very good care of me during that difficult situation. I was in the neighborhood today and just wanted to drop by and tell you how much I appreciated your help.”

            “Don’t mention it,” Bobby said, his expression equal parts moved and wary. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Can I offer you ladies a drink? Some water perhaps?”

            Martha knew exactly what he was offering and she resisted the urge to smile. She agreed and gave Tish a nod, indicating she should take one as well. When Bobby handed them bottles of water, Martha took a long, slow drink and Tish did the same. Bobby seemed satisfied by the result. Martha looked around for any hint of a devil’s trap, figuring Bobby had one somewhere close by, but she saw no sign of one.

            “What brings you to the area?” Bobby quizzed. “Sounds like you’re a long way from home.”

            “I came to Minneapolis for a medical convention,” Martha answered truthfully. Then came the less honest reply. “I have some friends in this part of the state and thought I’d skip the last lectures and come for a visit. It wasn’t until I was driving through town that I decided on a whim to find your salvage yard.”

            “Well you’ve certainly made an old man’s day,” Bobby flashed the ghost of grin at her.

            Martha waited a beat before saying, “When I was here last year, there were two younger gentlemen. They were quite helpful; I’d like to say thanks to them as well, if it’s possible.”

            Bobby nodded. “They’re here somewhere. Just a minute.” He walked a few yards closer to his house, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Hey! You two knuckleheads! Get your asses out here!”

            A moment later, the screen door opened and out walked the Winchesters, first Sam and then Dean. It took every ounce of willpower in Martha’s body for her not to run straight at Dean and catch him in an embrace.

            Tish leaned over and murmured in Martha’s ear, “You never told me they were gorgeous. Can we take them home for souvenirs?”

            “ _Tish!_ ” Martha hissed.

            “Maybe just the tall one, then.”

            “Leave it!”

            “Boys, these young ladies have come to say thanks to us for helping with their car last year. Sam, Dean, this is…” Bobby trailed off. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your names.”

            Martha gestured towards Tish, “This is my sister Leticia and I’m…”

            “Martha Jones,” Dean finished.

            Martha blanched. “How…how did you know that?”

            _“How_ did _I know that?”_ Dean wondered. Four pairs of eyes were staring at him curiously. “Uh, I’m not sure. I guess it just stuck somewhere.”

            “So, Martha,” Sam said amiably, “what brings you to our part of the world?”

            “A medical convention.”

            “Oh, are you a supplier or something?”

            She grinned. “No, actually. I’m a doctor.”

_Doctor._

            Dean started at the word. It suddenly had a new meaning coming from that voice. It was the voice he heard in his dreams. The mouth that formed that word…those lips were the ones he remembered he had never kissed. He had memories of blood trickling through his hands and, suddenly, somehow knew it had been hers. He remembered a cargo ship looming in the dark, the repetitive shriek of a rusted chain on a playground. He remembered quiet laughter in a trickle of moonlight. He remembered the bone-chilling shock of cold rain and something hidden in the shadows, just out of reach of his vision.

            “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

            “What?” Bobby and Sam said in unison.

            Dean looked directly at Martha. “What the hell did you do me? What kind of mind games are you playing?”

            Martha felt a flicker of fear. His outburst startled her.

            “What do you mean?” she asked.

            “What the frig are you doing in my head?”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Martha said honestly.

            Dean exhaled a frustrated sigh, balled his fists at his side. “I mean, I’ve never seen you before in my life but for some reason I remember you.”

            “Of course you do,” Martha placated. “You and your brother helped me bring my car here after my accident.”

            “No, that’s not it. I remember you from places I’ve never been,” he spat out the words, not stopping to think of how crazy they sounded.

            Martha could feel the blood draining from her head. Did Dean somehow have latent memories from their time together? Could he perhaps remember pieces of the year that had never been? So far, she’d encountered no one outside the occupants of the Valiant who recalled a single shred of those three hundred and sixty five days of hell. She struggled to sort her emotions and keep her thoughts focused.

            “Tell me what the hell kind of voodoo you’re running,” Dean demanded again. Martha saw his hand moving for the knife she knew he kept in his back pocket.

            “Dean, calm down,” Sam shouted, though his eyes were suspicious when he looked back at Martha and Tish.

            Martha kept her voice steady and even. “Tell me what you what you think I’m doing. Tell me what you remember.”

            His eyes clamped shut. The more he tried to hold onto the memories now, the more they slipped from his grasp. They briefly hovered in the air like shreds of fog and then evaporated into nothing. It was as if his recollections were ghosts and his bumbling attempts to ensnare them were the salt and iron driving them away.

            “I…I can’t now,” Dean stammered. He didn’t understand the crestfallen look on Martha’s face.

            “Talk to _us_ , Dean,” Bobby stirred the air between himself and Sam. “Explain it to _us_.”

            Dean turned to his brother. “It’s kinda like the, uh, _thing_ from Illinois. You know, the… _thing_?” he said, ignoring the quizzical expressions of the Joneses.

            Sam’s brow furrowed in contemplation.

            “You know, the place where we got a hold of some bad _gin_?” Dean emphasized. Sam’s eyes suddenly widened.

            “Oh! Right, the _gin_!” Sam exclaimed. He went serious again. “Dean, don’t you think this could be related to the gin? It messed you up pretty bad.”

            Now it was Martha’s turn to frown. “These hallucinations or memories or whatever you want to call them, they don’t sound like a typical side effect of alcohol poisoning.”

            Dean shot her look. “Oh, trust me. It was some _really_ bad gin.” He looked back at Sam and Bobby and shook his head. “No, this is different.”

            Listening to their exchange, Martha assumed the hunters were referring to something they had encountered, one of the things that go bump in the night. Possibly a demon or a werewolf or maybe even a scarecrow. Just one of the many monsters Dean had once told her existed. While they were on the subject of the strange and paranormal, Martha took her chance.

            “Listen, I’m not some credulous nitwit, but I do believe there are things we can’t explain. You say you have memories of me you couldn’t possibly have, but…” she paused to take a deep breath. It was all so timey-wimey.

            “Everyone has their own story. Some are ongoing, some have ended, and some are just a big ball of potential. They could have existed once or maybe they will someday, just brimming with possibilities. I think that’s where the feeling of déjà vu comes from, that glimmer of potential, of things we might have done in the past or what we could do in the future. What’s happening to you is not crazy, Dean. It’s just a different way of seeing things.”

            Dean stared. Normally, that kind of explanation would have had him reaching for the phone to call the nearest nuthouse. But there was something about the way she said it, something that told him she knew more than she was letting on.

            “Just because you have memories of something you’ve never done, doesn’t mean it didn’t happened. Or that it won’t happen one day.”

            A long, eerie silence descended. None of them, neither Bobby nor the Joneses or the Winchesters knew what to say.

            “Well, Martha,” Tish finally said. Everyone was surprised to hear her speak. She had been practically silent since they’d arrived. “Now that you’ve effectively killed the mood, why don’t you just do what you came here to do and let’s go. We still have a long drive.”

            Martha nodded and wordlessly walked to the rental where she retrieved the white box from the backseat. She presented it to Dean. “Just a little something to say thanks,” she said simply, her words unable to convey the vast amount of gratitude she felt.

            When he opened the box, Dean’s eyes glittered excitedly, like a child on Christmas morning.

            “Pie?! I _love_ pie.”

            A smile twisted Martha’s mouth. “Yes, I know.”

            He leaned in to inhale the aroma of tangible heaven. Suddenly, he asked, “It’s not one of those weird British pies is it? Mince meat or kidney or something horrible like that?”

            Her grin turned bittersweet. “No. It’s apple.”

            Adoration flooded his expression. “I still don’t know who the hell you are or what is about you that has my brain all scrambled, but I’m willing to set all that aside and ask you to marry me.”

            Martha laughed. It was a warm, golden sound that floated toward the sky. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I have a boyfriend.”

            Dean winked. “I’m fine with it if you are.”

            She laughed again, touching her fingertips to his arm. There was a familiarity there. Dean recognized it though he did not understand it. Martha understood that it would never happen again.

            The silence returned. This time, Martha was the one to break it.

            “Sam, Bobby…thank you both, for so much,” she said. They nodded politely, even though they weren’t sure why.

            Then, she lifted onto her toes and pressed her lips to the stubble on Dean’s cheek. “Thank you,” Martha whispered. “For everything you remember and for a million things that you don’t. Thank you Dean Winchester, for believing in me.”

            “Anytime,” he whispered in reply. He flashed a quick grin.

            Martha motioned for her sister to follow and they walked back to their car. Martha glanced over her shoulder once before climbing behind the wheel and starting the engine.

            Dean smiled when he heard a muffled refrain of the Rolling Stones wafting through the rolled up windows. Then, as he and Sam and Bobby watched, Martha Jones drove away. Dean couldn’t say for certain, but he knew he’d lived this before – him left behind while she went on to other adventures. Off to save the world, to finish out her own story somewhere else.

            He cleared his throat and looked around uncomfortably. “Someone get me a fork. This pie looks _good_.”

 

**THE END**


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